A night anon, a meager coupon I’ll
Redeem, obtained for plucking forth a pearl
Of wisdom known by me solely from Style,
Which satisfied the bar trivia girl.
I did explain to stunned Chicago bar
The esoteric contest. One man said,
On hearing a description of this Czar,
“Wasn’t he who wrote some Bell piece which I read?”
A chit in fading ink is all I’m owed,
So fortunate to receive anything
In inkless years since my cup overflowed
Never with more renown than second string.
This tiny violin I play lacks fame.
I beg you, please, reward it all the same.