The Fool

Here is a tale for children and their grannies: There was a fool, a man who'd had his chances But missed them, somehow; lost them, just for fancies, Tag-ends of things with which he'd crammed crannies Of his cracked head, as panes are crammed with paper: Fragments of song and bits of worthless writing, Which he was never weary of reciting, Fluttered his mind as night a windy taper. A witless fool! who lived in some fair Venice Of his own building where he dreamed of Beauty: Who swore each weed a flower the sorry pauper! This would not do. Men said he was a menace To all mankind; and, as it was their duty, Clapped him in prison where he died as proper.