This is December and the nineteenth day,
Eighteen hundred and ninety-five, I say;
My anniversary birthday is here,
This day begins my ninety-seventh year.
I, N. B. Bacon, ninety-six years old,
Take from my vest pocket my pen of gold.
Unsheath the point and dip it in the ink,
To write whate'er my waking muse may think.
Then write my poem where it may be seen
And read by friends, while on my staff I lean.
And criticized by all, with my consent,
I freely give it as a compliment.
I think I am now void of offense,
Like any other man of common sense:
I've learn'd to take tools by the smooth handle,
And know how to brook the vilest scandal.
The true Christian's key-note is charity.
I write this for a truthful certainty;
Sometimes I write for my own amusement,
Then write for others' perusement.
"Perusement," I've coined that word to make rhyme,
In writing my poems it is no crime.
All poets claim a right that overlooks
All the rules of Latin and grammar books.
Gentle reader, accept my best respects,
And in my poem pardon all defects.
Now I'll close with a praise doxology,
And give it to the reading public free.
Praise God, who arch'd the vaunted starry sky,
And pours the lucid day spring from on high;
Praise God in harmonious songs above,
Praise the All-father and his son of love.

N.B. Bacon, 1109 Nineteenth street,
Des Moines, Iowa, December 19, 1895