The Poet’s Doom
The
Poet’s Doom
An Object was walking
along the King’s highway wrapped in meditation and with little else on, when he
suddenly found himself at the gates of a strange city. On applying for
admittance, he was arrested as a necessitator of ordinances, and taken before
the King. “Who are you,” said the King, “and what is your business in life?” “Snouter
the Sneak,” replied the Object, with ready invention; “pick-pocket.” The King
was about to command him to be released when the Prime Minister suggested that
the prisoner’s fingers be examined. They were found greatly flattened and
calloused at the ends. “Ha!” cried the King; “I told you so!—he is addicted to
counting syllables. This is a poet. Turn him over to the Lord High Dissuader
from the Head Habit.” “My liege,” said the Inventor-in-Ordinary of Ingenious
Penalties, “I venture to suggest a keener affliction. “Name it,” the King said.
“Let him retain that head!” It was so ordered.
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