Monday, August 24, 2015

My Voice

That weak and ragged instrument, my voice,
Detuned by all my decades and the dust
Puffed away from paperbacks, now thrust
Into the public ear by desperate choice,
Would make the least articulate rejoice:

For I could never wave or smile, and trust
My spoken word to charm, or waken lust:
My talking never rolls, and is no royce.

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