The poem
Only a rhymer, so I am, Lone in the market place; I shrink, and no one cares a damn Though tears corrode my face. The hollows of my cheeks they track, Symbolic of vain hope; My hands are grimed because I lack The price of soap.
Only a rhymer! How my breeks Let in the Winter wind; One of my shoes obscenely leaks, My coat is safety pinned. Although my neb drips bead on bead, No handkerchief have I; My lips are blue, but none have heed My songs to buy.
Only a rhymer,--just a chiel Spewed from the land of Burns, A wastrel and a ne'er-do-weel, From whom the public turns. Alas! It is to late to mend The error of my ways, So I will jingle to the end Of all my days.