Poem by Owen Seaman

To a Boy-Poet of the Decadence

But my good little man, you have made a mistake
If you really are pleased to suppose
That the Thames is alight with the lyrics you make;
We could all do the same if we chose.

From Solomon down, we may read, as we run,
Of the ways of a man and a maid;
There is nothing that’s new to us under the sun,
And certainly not in the shade.

The erotic affairs that you fiddle aloud
Are as vulgar as coin of the mint;
And you merely distinguish yourself from the crowd
By the fact that you put ’em in print.

You’re a ’prentice, my boy, in the primitive stage,
And you itch, like a boy, to confess:
When you know a bit more of the arts of the age
You will probably talk a bit less.

For your dull little vices we don’t care a fig,
It is this that we deeply deplore;
You were cast for a common or usual pig,
But you play the invincible bore.

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