Will Yer Write It Down For Me?

In the parlour of the shanty where the lives have all gone wrong,     When a singer or reciter gives a story or a song,     Where the poets heart is speaking to their hearts in every line,     Till the hardest curse and blubber at the thoughts of Auld Lang Syne;     Then a boozer lurches forward with an oath for all disguise,     Prayers and curses in his soul, and tears and liquor in his eyes,     Grasps the singer or reciter with a death-grip by the hand:     Thats the truth, bloke! Sling it at em! Oh! Gorblime, that was grand!     Dont mind me; Ive got em. You know! Whats yer name, bloke! Dont yer see?     Whos the bloke what wrote the potry? Will yer write it down fer me?     And the backblocks bard goes through it, ever seeking as he goes     For the line of least resistance to the hearts of men he knows;     And he tracks their hearts in mateship, and he tracks them out alone,     Seeking for the power to sway them, till he finds it in his own,     Feels what they feel, loves what they love, learns to hate what they condemn,     Takes his pen in tears and triumph, and he writes it down for them.