My piece was pat and all ready to say,
She rose first. I threw my piece away.

My well-turned stuff
Was not so rough 

As hers, but easy elegant and smooth.

Beginning middle end
It had and point

And aptly quoted prophet priest and poet.

Hers was uncouth
Wanting in art

Laboured scarce-audible and out of joint.

Three times she lost the thread

And sitting left her message half unsaid.

‘Why then did thee throw it
Into the discard?’
Friend,
It had head
(Like this). Hers oh had heart.