Master Of Three Arts

Your various talents, Goldenson, command Respect: you are a poet and can draw. It is a pity that your gifted hand Should ever have been raised against the law. If you had drawn no pistol, but a picture, You would have saved your throttle from a stricture. About your poetry I'm not so sure: 'Tis certain we have much that's quite as bad, Whose hardy writers have not to endure The hangman's fondling. It is said they're mad: Though lately Mr. Brooks (I mean the poet) Looked well, and if demented didn't show it. Well, Goldenson, I am a poet, too Taught by the muses how to smite the harp And lift the tuneful voice, although, like you And Brooks, I sometimes flat and sometimes sharp. But let me say, with no desire to taunt you, I never murder even the girls I want to. I hold it one of the poetic laws To sing of life, not take. I've ever shown A high regard for human life because I have such trouble to support my own. And you-well, you'll find trouble soon in blowing Your private coal to keep it red and glowing. I fancy now I see you at the Gate Approach St. Peter, crawling on your belly, You cry: 'Good sir, take pity on my state Forgive the murderer of Mamie Kelly!' And Peter says: 'O, that's all right-but, mister, You scribbled rhymes. In Hell I'll make you blister!'