The Monotonous I

I wish to say with modest grace, In brief, to state the woesome case Of one increasing o’er supply That comes of oft-repeated I.

This stalking form besets my way, Beseeching favors every day; ’Tis I am this, and I am I, ’Till nothing seems so great, so high.

Oh, what can give a better sense. Or aid in timely recompense For dropping off the wily I When thus it lurks as my supply?

I talk of I, and I, and I, ’Till people weary with a sigh; If it could only perish — die! This stale monotony of I.

But changing I to these or those, Or we, or anything that goes, Despoils me of the thing I chose; A world-wide weakness makes me cry: “The ego wins—it must be I!”