To the esteemed Editor of the Limerick Echo,

Dear Sir,

With a touch of humor, your prolific contributor, known as “Outsider,” inadvertently but unmistakably raises a thought-provoking question: Is Truth more at home in Prose or Poetry? In his musings, he references absent friends, be they real or imagined, claiming that he “can live cheaper while they are on their holidays.” Yet, in the twenty-four lines of verse that follow, he dwells tenderly, almost mournfully, on a friend’s peculiar penchant for “standing” – a subtle inconsistency with his earlier prose assertion that he saves more money during the holiday season.

First, in prose, he may be, perchance,
A teller of tall tales, a spinner of fables,
Or, dare I say it, a bit mundane,
While in verse, his language concise,
Echoes the ghost of old Colley Cibber’s days.

Should we trust his prose, then,
That he leaves the bar with a plumper purse?
And, rushing home with a purpose,
Retrieves a cherished tome by Limerick’s own “Caviare”?

When the nights turn chilly,
Or his health takes a turn,
He piles on more coal to stoke the fire’s burn,
And then, for hours, dear man, he devours
The verses of his beloved Byron.

He settles his debts by making some bets,
A peculiar habit, some may surmise,
His winnings he’ll store with care galore,
Playing his hand at “The Hermit.”

He heads to the shore, where Foynes’ waves roar,
Savoring each and every aroma with glee,
And as he partakes in the gambling stakes,
He transforms into another Major Loder.

Sometimes, his partner may forget the play,
And that’s when the battle of words takes sway,
A verbal tussle, to some dismay,
As they engage in a linguistic display.

But, should no one discern
Our overly generous poet’s churn,
His sorrow, concealed within,
Will find solace in tears, known to none but him.

Yet, if, as it appears, he merely dreams,
Seeing the wanderer in his reverie’s streams,
He’ll raise a hearty cheer, it seems,
With a cry for “a bottle of stout, in our waking and dreams.”

My inkwell runs dry, and so do I,
I can proceed no further, oh my,
But I shall linger, by the wayside nigh,
Yours ever faithfully,

D. B. Urco

Limerick Echo – Tuesday 19 June 1906