For A Lady Who Must Write Verse

By Dorothy Parker
Unto seventy years and seven,
   Hide your double birthright well—
You, that are the brat of Heaven
   And the pampered heir to Hell.

Let your rhymes be tinsel treasures,
   Strung and seen and thrown aside.
Drill your apt and docile measures
   Sternly as you drill your pride.

Show your quick, alarming skill in
   Tidy mockeries of art;
Never, never dip your quill in
   Ink that rushes from your heart.

When your pain must come to paper,
   See it dust, before the day;
Let your night-light curl and caper,
   Let it lick the words away.

Never print, poor child, a lay on
   Love and tears and anguishing,
Lest a cooled, benignant Phaon
   Murmur, “Silly little thing!”

Copyright Credit: Dorothy Parker, "For A Lady Who Must Write Verse" from Sunset Gun: Light Verse (New York: Boni & Liveright, Inc., 1928.) Public domain.
Source: Sunset Gun: Light Verse (Boni & Liveright, Inc., 1928)