Though, on the whole, I think my verse,
When all is said, might be much worse.
GILL: Worse, father? Yes, perhaps you're right,
Upon the whole--perhaps, it might.
MYSELF: But hark now, miss! Attend to this!
Poetic flights I do not fly;
When I begin, like poor Lobkyn,
I merely rhyme and versify.
Since my shortcomings I avow,
The story now, you must allow,
Trips lightly and in happy vein?
GILL: O, yes, father, though it is rather
Like some parts of your "Beltane."
MYSELF: How, child! Dare you accuse your sire
Of plagiary--that sin most dire?
And if I do, small blame there lies;
It is myself I plagiarise.
GILL: Why, yes, of course! And, as you know.
I always loved your "Beltane" so.
MYSELF: But don't you like the "geste" I'm writing?
GILL: Of course! It's getting most exciting,
In spite of all the rhymes and stuff--
MYSELF: Stuff?
Enough!
My daughter, you're so sweetly frank.
Henceforth my verses shall be blank.
No other rhyme I'll rhyme for you
Till you politely beg me to.
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