MASTER OF THREE ARTSYour various talents, Goldenson, commandRespect: you are a poet and can draw.It is a pity that your gifted handShould ever have been raised against the law.If you had drawn no pistol, but a picture,You would have saved your throttle from a stricture.About your poetry I'm not so sure:'Tis certain we have much that's quite as bad,Whose hardy writers have not to endureThe hangman's fondling. It is said they're mad:Though lately Mr. Brooks (I mean the poet)Looked well, and if demented didn't show it.Well, Goldenson, I am a poet, too—Taught by the muses how to smite the harpAnd lift the tuneful voice, although, like youAnd Brooks, I sometimes flat and sometimes sharp.But let me say, with no desire to taunt you,I never murder even the girls I want to.I hold it one of the poetic lawsTo sing of life, not take. I've ever shownA high regard for human life becauseI have such trouble to support my own.And you—well, you'll find trouble soon in blowingYour private coal to keep it red and glowing.I fancy now I see you at the GateApproach St. Peter, crawling on your belly,You cry: "Good sir, take pity on my state—Forgive the murderer of Mamie Kelly!"And Peter says: "O, that's all right—but, mister,You scribbled rhymes. In Hell I'll make youblister!"
Your various talents, Goldenson, commandRespect: you are a poet and can draw.It is a pity that your gifted handShould ever have been raised against the law.If you had drawn no pistol, but a picture,You would have saved your throttle from a stricture.About your poetry I'm not so sure:'Tis certain we have much that's quite as bad,Whose hardy writers have not to endureThe hangman's fondling. It is said they're mad:Though lately Mr. Brooks (I mean the poet)Looked well, and if demented didn't show it.Well, Goldenson, I am a poet, too—Taught by the muses how to smite the harpAnd lift the tuneful voice, although, like youAnd Brooks, I sometimes flat and sometimes sharp.But let me say, with no desire to taunt you,I never murder even the girls I want to.I hold it one of the poetic lawsTo sing of life, not take. I've ever shownA high regard for human life becauseI have such trouble to support my own.And you—well, you'll find trouble soon in blowingYour private coal to keep it red and glowing.I fancy now I see you at the GateApproach St. Peter, crawling on your belly,You cry: "Good sir, take pity on my state—Forgive the murderer of Mamie Kelly!"And Peter says: "O, that's all right—but, mister,You scribbled rhymes. In Hell I'll make youblister!"