The cynics say that every rose
Is guarded by a thorn that grows
To spoil our posies:
But I no pleasure therefore lack;
I keep my hands behind my back
When smelling roses.

'Tis proved that Sodom's appletarts
Have ashes as component parts
For those that steal them:
My soul no disillusion seeks;
I love my apples' rosy cheecks,
But never peel them.

Though outwardly a gloomy shroud,
The inner half of every cloud
Is bright and shining;
I therefore turn my clouds about
And always wear them inside out
To show the lining.

Our idols' feet are made of clay;
So stony-hearted critics say
With scornful mockings:
My images are deified
Because I keep them well supplied
With shoes and stockings.

My
modus operandi
this--
To take no heed of what's amiss;
And not a bad one:
Because as Shakespeare used to say
A merry heart goes twice the way
That tires a sad one.