The poem
While I make rhymes my brother John Makes shiny shoes which dames try on, And finding to their fit and stance They buy and wear with elegance; But mine is quite another tale,-- For song there is no sale.
My brother Tom a tailor shop Is owner of, and ladies stop To try the models he has planned, And richly pay, I understand: Yet not even a dingy dime Can I make with my rhyme.
My brother Jim sells stuff to eat Like trotters, tripe and sausage meat. I dare not by his window stop, Lest he should offer me a chop; For though a starving bard I be, To hell, say I, with charity!
My brothers all are proud of purse, But though my poverty I curse, I would not for a diadem Exchange my lowly lot with them: A garret and a crust for me, And reams and dreams of Poetry.
Robert! I loved it!! My mom says 'written by a true relative, if not blood in spirit' Keep up the good work,
-Sabrina & Lydia in Sacramento CA