It’s true, perhaps, no fool unborn
Will ever quite produce such corn
As I turn out. It has a lure
For which, it seems, there is no cure.
(Excuse me, if I blow my horn)
Yet every day, in early morn,
I from my verse am rudely torn
To go to work. That IT’S more sure
Is true, perhaps.
Some distant day, retired, forlorn,
When I’m too old and tired and worn
To even think of literature,
With all the time I can conjure,
Will I wish I had my job to scorn?–
It’s true, perhaps!
by Ray Romine Thursday, April 13, 1944
