The red blood throbs
And forms in gobs
On the nose of Hank McPhee.
With a wild “Ha-Ha!” he shoots his pa
Through the frozen artic lea.
A rugged young rhymer named Frost,
Once tried to be strong at all cost
The mote in his eye
May be barley or rye,
But his right in that beauty is lost.
Though the meek shall inherit the land,
He prefers a tough bird in the hand,
He puts him in inns,
And feeds him on gins,
And the high brows say, “Isn't he grand?”
F. S. F.
Published in The Princeton Tiger, XXVIII (November 10, 1917).