O Sacred Muse, my lyre excuse! - My verse is vagrant singing; Rhyme I invoke for simple folk Of penny-wise upbringing: For Grannies grey to paste away Within an album cover; For maids in class to primly pass, And lads to linger over. I take the clay of every day And mould it in my fashion; I seek to trace the commonplace With humor and compassion. Of earth am I, and meekly try To be supremely human: To please, I plan, the little man, And win the little women. No evil theme shall daunt my dream Of fellow-love and pity; I tune my lute to prostitute, To priest I pipe my ditty. Through gutter-grime be in my rhyme, I bow to altars holy. . . . Lord, humble me, so I may be A Laureate of the Lowly.