On a Bacchic Poet
He never discovered the secret of wine.
His potion was water. He wasn't a wowser,
but somehow the only thing he could divine
was water. A really remarkable dowser.
Though his pencil was sadly deficient in lead,
when he found the Muse sleeping he'd try to arouse her.
And somehow whenever he got into bed
he always had both of his legs in one trouser.
He made up a thousand and forty-two ballads
to celebrate women and wine—a carouser
on paper unparagoned. Eater of salads
and bibber of water—but no, not a wowser.