You bid me write, and so this string
Of aimless rhymes is given wing.
These verses, far from recondite,
Are neither elegant nor light;
They have no beauty, point, nor sting.

And yet, somehow, they seem to sing
With quite an eerie sort of swing —
Perhaps it is because tonight
You bid me write.

Now I could sing of Wagner's " Ring, "
Of " Shoes " or " Ships " or even " Spring; "
Of " Summer's Blessing, " " Winter's Blight; "
Of " Shakespeare, " " Love, " or " Souls Contrite — "
What? Would I sing of anything
You bid me? Right!