Myrtilla, when the thought of you
Obstructs my cold, unbiased view,
And keeps me from
My hard though hum-
Ble task,
I do not murmur nor complain
I do not ululate nor feign
A love for _vin_
Or what is in
A flask.
When, as I said in stanza first,
My mind is thoroughly immersed
With you until
My pulses thrill
And throb,
I don't, in tones more picturesque
Than journalistic, slam my desk,
And in a fit
Of frenzy quit
My job.
When, as I may have said before,
Your image I can not ignore,
I do not tear
My thinning hair
Nor cuss;
I leave such sentimental show
To bards like Shelley, Keats, and Poe
I merely spill
Some ink, Myrtil-
La, thus.
