My love was a monstrous poor poet
Though numerous times did he try
I think that scarce did he know it
As he always wore such a smile

He claimed that twas nature inspir’d it
And talked with so lofty an air
You’d think that a god had respir’d it
So that he alone would it hear

Yet not one critic would spit
The truth, hurtful words, or a curse
For he was ever so kind in his spirit
And ever so proud of his verse

But this skill was his only deficit
Many other fine things could he boast
And who am I to admit
It of all made me love him the most