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In Composition

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Fiction

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Oh come, insipid muse, and lend your aid To my reluctant pen, that I may end Quickly this tiresome task, a chore to jade A far more willing heart than I do lend To it. We two must find that moment's pause In time when did beget Mediocrity On plain Anonymity the formal cause Of my poor diatribe—child Apathy. With him, save callous fate, had ended all, But on a common afternoon did find In dandelion fields of early fall Innocuity our Apathy. His mind She did confound, and on that simple ground Began, though neither cared, the progeny Proliferous that now has spread all round To afflict mankind with their passivity.

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