The Flute Of The Lonely

[To the tune of Gaily the Troubadour.]

Faintly the ne'er-do-well Breathed through his flute: All the tired neighbor-folk, Hearing, were mute. In their neat doorways sat, Labors all done, Helpless, relaxed, o'er-wrought, Evening begun.

None of them there beguiled Work-thoughts away, Like to this reckless, wild Loafer by day. (Weeds in his flowers upgrown! Fences awry! Rubbish and bottles heaped! Yard like a sty!)

There in his lonely door, Leering and lean, Staggering, liquor-stained, Outlawed, obscene---- Played he his moonlight thought, Mastered his flute. All the tired neighbor-folk, Hearing, were mute. None but he, in that block, Knew such a tune. All loved the strain, and all Looked at the moon!