A Common Plaint

If I could write a tale to-night,
A tale of thrilling things;
A spice of love, a bit of fight,
The clink of wedding rings,
The villain’s death, and all end right,
If I could write a tale to-night.

My pot is on the fire to-night,
Alas, it needs to boil;
I gaze with would-be seeress sight,
And burn the midnight oil,
Alack, again, I cannot write,
My pot is on the fire to-night.

A check looms large into my sight,
And here, I scribble rhymes;
No editor will heed my plight,
I’ve proved that scores of times:
Oh, hero, gallant, come bedight,
A check looms large into my sight.

I gaze into the fire to-night,
And build my castles there;
Great mansions, tall, and all alight,
Alas, they turn to air.
Then vainly, I for ideas fight,
And gaze into the fire to-night.

It is no use, I cannot write,
I’d rather dream than work;
Then what’s the use, let’s take to-night
For luxury of shirk.
Those editors would send it back,
I cannot write, ah, well, alack!