Dear Horace, you've been paraphrased
So often and so badly,
By men who ponderously praised
And took your verses sadly —

I wonder whether you, whose heart
Was light as any thistle,
Would not approve my simpler art,
And like my penny whistle.

You have been " done " so many times
In fashion fine and futile,
You might esteem my tinkling rimes
And listen to me tootle.

My Latin is, like Nanki-Poo,
" A thing of shreds and patches " ;
More pertinent my mood to you,
If so your mood it matches.

Be that assured, I'll pipe ahead
Without the least misgiving:
The letter of your song is dead,
The spirit still is living.