Lord, what am I, that with unceasing care
Thou did'st seek after me, that Thou did'st wait
Wet with unhealthy dews before my gate,
And pass the gloomy nights of winter there? ...
(With apologies to the singer of the “Song of the Banjo”.)
I'm a homely little bit of tin and bone;
I'm beloved by the Legion of the Lost;
I haven't got a “vox humana” tone,
And a dime or two will satisfy my cost.
I don't attempt your high-falutin' flights;
I am more or less uncertain on the key;
... Read complete poem