'Tis a custom quite honored, I own,
To bow to the muses of yore,
Who live in inanimate stone,
Immortal in verse evermore;
Methinks it a terrible bore
The ink of one's leisure to dip
On damsels who lived long before-
The muse has a smile on her lip.
Terpsichore, dizzy old crone,
Who foots it so sly on the floor,
Has feet which are worn to the bone
And toeses eternally sore.
Calliope - well, if she wore
A ghost of a gown on her hip,
But she don't - so away with this lore-