Pullman Porter

The porter in the Pullman car

Was charming, as they sometimes are.

He scanned my baggage tags: “Are you

The man who wrote of Lady Lou?”

When I said “yes” he made a fuss —

Oh, he was most assiduous;

And I was pleased to think that he

Enjoyed my brand of poetry.

He was forever at my call,

So when we got to Montreal

And he had brushed me off, I said:

“I’m glad my poems you have read,

I feel quite flattered, I confess,

And if you give me your address

I’ll send you (autographed, of course)

One of my little books of verse.”

He smiled — his teeth were white as milk;

He spoke — his voice was soft as silk.

I recognized, despite his skin,

The perfect gentleman within.

Then courteously he made reply:

“I thank you kindly, Sir, but I

With many other cherished tome

Have all your books of verse at home.

“When I was quite a little boy

I used to savour them with joy;

And now my daughter, aged three,

Can tell the tale of Sam McGee;

While Tom, my son, that’s only two,

Has heard the yarn of Dan McGrew ....

Don’t think your stuff I’m not applaudin’ —

My taste is Eliot and Auden.”

So as we gravely bade adieu

I felt quite snubbed — and so would you.

And yet I shook him by the hand,

Impressed that he could understand

The works of those two tops I mention,

So far beyond my comprehension —

A humble bard of boys and barmen,

Disdained, alas! by Pullman carmen.