Commentary

I am not the august raconteur
Who hearthside sits on a parlor chair,
Pipe in hand and slippers on feet,
Gravely intoning the hero's feat.
My prose does not peal like cathedral bells;
My revelations are lesser hells.
I am neither chorus nor autocrat
Chiding the proletariat.
I'm more a child than a seasoned guide:
If you seek me out, I'm likely to hide!
I'll joyfully run around opening doors
To show you wonders, then drop my drawers.
A clown I am! So expect very little
In the way of sobriety, except a wee tittle
At the end of a bottle... The lees, they are called,
Dreams sunk to the bottom, fortunes forestalled.