To The Poet Laureate

    My dear Poet Laureate, -
    Do not, I implore you,
    Be perturbed.
    It is not my purpose to harp
    Upon old strings,
    Or to express the smallest satisfaction
    Either with you as an official personage
    Or with your verses as a production of an official personage;
    I have called to-day, as it were,
    For a little quiet talk:
    You are a fellow-townsman of mine,
    Consequently
    I am a fellow-townsman of yours;
    We ought to get on well together.
    Between ourselves, my dear Poet Laureate,
    It seems to me
    That if you were to set about it
    In the right way
    You might, with very little trouble
    Render a real service to the State
    Being as you are
    The only writer fellow
    Who in his literary capacity
    Is associated with the Court,
    You have, if I may say so, chances and opportunities
    Such as do not appear to have been vouchsafed
    To any other contemporary worker in the department of Letters.
    Our Gracious Sovereign Lord King Edward VII.
    (I make no doubt)
    Continually consults you on matters literary
    "Dear Mr. Austen" (I can hear him saying),
    "Would you now advise me to read
    Mr. Newverse's Sonnets
    And Miss Jumpabouti's new novel,
    Or would you not?"
    Of course, my dear Poet Laureate,
    If you were one of those stiff ungenerous Poets Laureate
    Who make it a rule to stick to business,
    You would say very respectfully,
    "Your Majesty honours me,
    But I am not your Majesty's Book-Taster,
    Being, as your Majesty is aware,
    Paid only to wangle my harp
    In celebration of Births, Deaths, and Marriages.
    Therefore I must respectfully, civilly, humbly, and generally otherwisely
    Beg to decline to answer your Majesty's kind inquiry."
    But my dear Poet Laureate,
    There is nothing of that sort about you.
    You believe that a Poet Laureate,
    Should not only be a sort of walking rhyming dictionary,
    But also a general compendium of advice, counsel, and straight tips
    For crowned heads.
    Hence (I make no doubt)
    That when his Majesty the King
    Does ask you for a hint as to the kind of book he ought to read
    You break the marble box of your wisdom
    Upon the palace floor
    And expound things to him.
    Having thus the ear
    Of an exceedingly amiable and capable Monarch,
    You should by all means
    Take advantage of the circumstance
    To do what you can in that quarter
    For the benefit of your brethren and sisters of the pen.
    Many of them, my dear Poet Laureate,
    Are at the present moment
    Going about the country
    With weary souls and tattered nerves
    Because their Services to Literature
    Have not been blessed and approved,
    Not to say "recognised,"
    By the Crown.
    Some of them believe in their hearts
    That they ought to have a peerage.
    Others desire to be Baronets, Knights, and so forth,
    In order that their wives may be called "Lady."
    Others, whom I know,
    Would be well content with a humble K.C.B.
    And yet others
    Would go off their heads with joy
    If they might only be invited regularly
    To the King's Levees and Droring Rooms.
    My dear Poet Laureate,
    I charge you to do your best for these suffering people.
    WRITING IS A NOBLE ART,
    IT SHOULD MOST CERTAINLY BE RECOGNISED BY THE CROWN.
    Rub these facts well in, my dear Poet Laureate
    (You know who to rub 'em into);
    And while you are about it,
    There are two persons
    On whose behalf
    You might use every legitimate endeavour
    To rub your hardest -
    One of them, my dear Poet Laureate, is YOURSELF
    And the other is
    MYSELF.
    Your own desires in the way of "recognition"
    Are of course your own affair,
    Ask for what you like, my dear Poet Laureate,
    And see that you get it,
    For me
    (Let me whisper)
    I want a pension.