“Who can speak the crimes of rhyming?”
Said a poet. Well he knew
What this vile and senseless chiming
Tempts a singer's soul to do:

How it alters his rude power,
Nature's firstborn rhythm vast,
Into trifles for an hour
Cheap and vulgar, first to last!

How it changes his swift dancing,
Pause and whirl of tireless feet,
Into capers unentrancing,
Cut for pennies on the street.

Or if all the gold of Indies
Could not tempt him to such shame,
Deeper yet the poet's sin lies:
He is jingling but for fame:

Idol made of gilded paper,
Crammed inside with chaff and bran,
Fit to dolt the foolish gaper,
Fit only to be kicked by man!

Whether gold or fame, no matter
Which I serve, it is the same,
For my castanets I clatter,
Bawl some vulgar song of shame

In a voice that cracks and falters;
And I tumble on my head
In this garb that nothing alters,
Clown-costume of white and red.

People laugh and think me funny,
Deem my face a mirthful sight.
When I go 'round for the money,
Then they scatter, left and right!