Alas! I am only a rhymer, <br />I don't know the meaning of Art; <br />But I learned in my little school primer <br />To love Eugene Field and Bret Harte. <br />I hailed Hoosier Ryley with pleasure, <br />To John Hay I took off my hat; <br />These fellows were right to my measure, <br />And I've never gone higher than that. <br /> <br />The Classics! Well, most of them bore me, <br />The Moderns I don't understand; <br />But I keep Burns, my kinsman before me, <br />And Kipling, my friend, is at hand. <br />They taught me my trade as I know it, <br />Yet though at their feet I have sat, <br />For God-sake don't call me a poet, <br />For I've never been guilty of that. <br /> <br />A rhyme-rustler, rugged and shameless, <br />A Bab Balladeer on the loose; <br />Of saccarine sonnets I'm blameless, <br />My model has been - Mother Goose. <br />And I fancy my grave-digger griping <br />As he gives my last lodging a pat: <br />"This guy wrote McGrew; <br />'Twas the best he could do" . . . <br />So I'll go to my maker with that.<br /><br />Robert William Service<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-verseman-s-apology/
