There is pleasure in the wet, wet clay

There is pleasure in the wet, wet clay, 
When the artist's hand is potting it.
There is pleasure in the wet, wet lay, 
When the poet's pad is blotting it.
There is pleasure in the shine of your picture on the line 
At the Royal Acade-my;
But the pleasure felt in these is as chalk to Cheddar cheese 
When it comes to a well-made Lie.—
To a quite unwreckable Lie, 
To a most impeccable Lie!
To a water-tight,  fire-proof,  angle-iron,  sunk-hinge,  time-lock, steel-faced Lie!
Not a private hansom Lie,
But a pair-and-brougham Lie,
Not a little-place-at-Tooting,  but a country-house-with-shooting
And a ring-fence-deer-park Lie.

Choose another poem