Fifty-Fifty

For something like eleven summers I've written things that aimed to teach Our careless mealy-mouthéd mummers To be more sedulous of speech. So sloppy of articulation So limping and so careless they, About distinct enunciation, Often I don't know what they say. The other night an able actor, Declaiming of some lines I heard, I hailed a public benefactor, As I distinguished every word. But, oh! the subtle disappointment! Thorn on the celebrated rose And fly within the well-known ointment! (Allusions everybody knows). Came forth the words exact and snappy. And as I sat there, that P.M., I mused, "Was I not just as happy When I could not distinguish them?"