While I make rhymes my brother John <br />Makes shiny shoes which dames try on, <br />And finding to their fit and stance <br />They buy and wear with elegance; <br />But mine is quite another tale,-- <br /> For song there is no sale. <br /> <br />My brother Tom a tailor shop <br />Is owner of, and ladies stop <br />To try the models he has planned, <br />And richly pay, I understand: <br />Yet not even a dingy dime <br />Can I make with my rhyme. <br /> <br />My brother Jim sells stuff to eat <br />Like trotters, tripe and sausage meat. <br />I dare not by his window stop, <br />Lest he should offer me a chop; <br />For though a starving bard I be, <br />To hell, say I, with charity! <br /> <br />My brothers all are proud of purse, <br />But though my poverty I curse, <br />I would not for a diadem <br />Exchange my lowly lot with them: <br />A garret and a crust for me, <br />And reams and dreams of Poetry.<br /><br />Robert William Service<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/my-brothers/
