THE BALLAD OF A POET'S PEN The singers good were seized for debt At springtime of the year; The

singers pen, with rhyming wet Lay by the auctioneer. And clowning like a goose's foal, Or chicken of the ass, The auctioneer, with bumble soul, Brought all his quips to grass. I ween he was a weary wight, And rugged at the mouth, Who toiled in mirth, his mirths despite, Like penguins of the South. A waddle-jest to see a chair, A flounder-thought to clear The thing they call a duchess pair When washerqueens are near The sweat upon his hast nose In beaded bubbles shone, The while in agony uprose His Going! Going! Gone! Five shilling for an idle clock A table sold for ten: And then by its grey feathered lock, He seized the singers pen. He led it rudely through the air, Intent with mirth to kill The haggling caution and the care That kept the buyers still. He held it up. Lot fifty-nine! What offers? See it flame! The splendid instrument divine That made a poet's name!" Thin was the giggle round he knees, Like rat-scorn of a hen: And, as it died into a wheeze, Fire stirred within the pen.

It found a soul: mesmeric force Moved in its draggled plume: It knew its purpose and its course; Its magic burst in bloom. What offers? One said Half a crown. "Four shillings!" "Five!" "Six!" "Eight!" The clamorous voices rose to drown The mirth that came too late. A Jew that look like Shylock's ghost To judgment came afresh Raised over the shilling-brawling host Three pounds of nasal flesh. Ten pounds I bid! The auctioneer In sheer surprise turned green. Twelve! roared a voice made round by beer The Hebrew lisped Fifteen! It reached the hundred in three bids; The room grew mad with sound. The thunder of the yobs and yids Clashed upward pound on pound. The auctioneer took off his shirt: He fought the blistered breath, Come wrath, come doom, howeer it hurt, Men sought that prize or death. Up, up to realms of high finance The furious storm arose; The Israelite was seen to dance So hard he burst his nose. The Hallelujah chorus blent With German hymns of hate Was like the awful sound that rent The quiet of the state The Minister of Public Health Rushed headlong down the street And brought three-quarters of his wealth The sudden call to meet. The Governor with wonder saw The passing of the throng: And closing his remarks with Haw! Brought all his suite along.

And fishermen and draper kings And simple folk in drink Shot towards the mart as if on springs To act ere they could think. The bid barrage, the thunderous yell Seemed to the auctioneer As when the Tower of Babel fell On Nimrods purple ear. Yet manfully he stood his ground Until few could nod or speak, And in an awful lapse of sound He heard the million squeak. A syndicate in concert cried One thin, victorious yell The auctioneer exhausted, died Just as his hammer fell One million pounds! The joyous quill Its fount of magic spent, Ruffled its hot triumphant frill And sighed in deep content. And somewhere, in sad retreat, They found the singer hid And brought and offered at his feet The remnant of the bid. The sixty pounds of debt were paid, He stood sublime and free: For every daylight ghost was laid To all eternity. He read the cheque with quiet eyes, At length, said he, do men Begin to somewhat realize The value of my pen.
Pat OMaori Pseudonym for David McKee Wright N.S.W. The Bulletin 29 April 1920