[Verse 1] He pins a leaf above his desk And calls it “autumn’s last request” He taps his pen, then checks the clock As if the Muse might punch the clock [Chorus] Oh, poetaster, polished pose You rhyme the thorn and miss the rose You bow so low, you steal the show Then ask the room what all those words mean [Verse 2] He writes “the moon,” then writes it twice To make the first one sound precise A widow reads his little page And asks if rent is due by age [Chorus] Oh, poetaster, polished pose You rhyme the thorn and miss the rose You bow so low, you steal the show Then ask the room what all those words mean [Bridge] But in the margin, small and plain A line slips out without his name No grand salute, no velvet sleeve Just something true enough to leave [Final Chorus] Oh, poetaster, set it down Take off the laurel, lose the crown The finest line you ever wrote Was barely dressed—and still it spoke [Outro] He pins the page above his desk And calls the silence “great success”
