To The Poet Laureate

My dear Poet Laureate, -         Do not, I implore you,         Be perturbed.         It is not my purpose to harp         Upon old strings,         Or to express the smallest satisfaction         Either with you as an official personage         Or with your verses as a production of an official personage;         I have called to-day, as it were,         For a little quiet talk:         You are a fellow-townsman of mine,         Consequently         I am a fellow-townsman of yours;         We ought to get on well together.         Between ourselves, my dear Poet Laureate,         It seems to me         That if you were to set about it         In the right way         You might, with very little trouble         Render a real service to the State         Being as you are         The only writer fellow         Who in his literary capacity         Is associated with the Court,         You have, if I may say so, chances and opportunities         Such as do not appear to have been vouchsafed         To any other contemporary worker in the department of Letters.         Our Gracious Sovereign Lord King Edward VII.         (I make no doubt)         Continually consults you on matters literary         "Dear Mr. Austen" (I can hear him saying),         "Would you now advise me to read         Mr. Newverse's Sonnets         And Miss Jumpabouti's new novel,         Or would you not?"         Of course, my dear Poet Laureate,         If you were one of those stiff ungenerous Poets Laureate         Who make it a rule to stick to business,         You would say very respectfully,         "Your Majesty honours me,         But I am not your Majesty's Book-Taster,         Being, as your Majesty is aware,         Paid only to wangle my harp         In celebration of Births, Deaths, and Marriages.         Therefore I must respectfully, civilly, humbly, and generally otherwisely         Beg to decline to answer your Majesty's kind inquiry."         But my dear Poet Laureate,         There is nothing of that sort about you.         You believe that a Poet Laureate,         Should not only be a sort of walking rhyming dictionary,         But also a general compendium of advice, counsel, and straight tips         For crowned heads.         Hence (I make no doubt)         That when his Majesty the King         Does ask you for a hint as to the kind of book he ought to read         You break the marble box of your wisdom         Upon the palace floor         And expound things to him.         Having thus the ear         Of an exceedingly amiable and capable Monarch,         You should by all means         Take advantage of the circumstance         To do what you can in that quarter         For the benefit of your brethren and sisters of the pen.         Many of them, my dear Poet Laureate,         Are at the present moment         Going about the country         With weary souls and tattered nerves         Because their Services to Literature         Have not been blessed and approved,         Not to say "recognised,"         By the Crown.         Some of them believe in their hearts         That they ought to have a peerage.         Others desire to be Baronets, Knights, and so forth,         In order that their wives may be called "Lady."         Others, whom I know,         Would be well content with a humble K.C.B.         And yet others         Would go off their heads with joy         If they might only be invited regularly         To the King's Levees and Droring Rooms.         My dear Poet Laureate,         I charge you to do your best for these suffering people.         WRITING IS A NOBLE ART,         IT SHOULD MOST CERTAINLY BE RECOGNISED BY THE CROWN.         Rub these facts well in, my dear Poet Laureate         (You know who to rub 'em into);         And while you are about it,         There are two persons         On whose behalf         You might use every legitimate endeavour         To rub your hardest -         One of them, my dear Poet Laureate, is YOURSELF         And the other is         MYSELF.         Your own desires in the way of "recognition"         Are of course your own affair,         Ask for what you like, my dear Poet Laureate,         And see that you get it,         For me         (Let me whisper)         I want a pension.