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The facile Scribbler writes; and, having writ, No Rules of Rhetoric bother him a Bit, Or lure him back to cancel half a Line, Nor Grammar's protests change a Word of it.
With Puck's first joke, they did the last Life feed, And there of Judge's Stories sowed the Seed: And the first jokelet that Joe Miller wrote The Sunday Comic-Section readers read.
I tell you this--When, started from the Goal, The first Plantation Ditty 'gan to roll Through Minstrel Troupes and Negro Baritones In its predestined race from Pole to Pole,
The Song had caught a Rag-Time girls could shout And Piano-Organs make a Din about; But syncopated Melodies at last Will pass away, and more shall come, no doubt.
And this I know: though Vaudeville delight, Musical Comedy can bore me quite; One act of Ibsen from the Gallery caught, Better than Daly for a festal Night!
What! out of senseless Show-Girls to evoke A Drama? Surely, I resent the Joke! For me, it is not Pleasure, but a Pain-- An Everlasting Bore for decent Folk.
What, must the Theatre Manager be paid-- Our Gold for what his Carpenter has made-- Must we pay Stars we never did Contract, And cannot hiss at?--Oh, the sorry trade!
Oh Thou, who dost with cool sarcastic Grin Scorn the poor Magazine my Story's in, Though Thou impute to ignorance my Work, I know how bad 't will be, ere I begin!
Oh Thou, whose Taste demandeth silly Tales, Damning the Author when he Tries and Fails, Let us toss up to see which one is Worse-- Thy Fault or mine--Which is it, Heads or Tails?
As, for his Luncheon Hour, away had slipp'd The Editor, his Office-Boy I tipp'd, And once again before the Sacred Desk I stood, surrounded by much Manuscript.
Manuscripts of all Sizes, great and small, Upon that Desk, in Numbers to appall! And Some looked very interesting; some I saw no Sign of Merit in, at all.
Said one among them--"Surely not in vain My Author has exhausted all his Brain In writing me, to be rejected here-- I'd hate to have to be sent back again!"
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