Waste not your Ink, and don't attempt to use That Subtle Touch which Editors refuse; Better be jocund at two cents a word Than, starving, court an ill-requited Muse!
You know, my Friends, I've done with Purple Cows, And long to sober Fiction paid my Vows; Spontaneous Glee is mighty hard to Sell-- 'Twas Carolyn Wells that shot across _my_ Bows.
For Stuff and Nonsense being in my Line, As Nonsense modern Fiction I define; But of the sort that one would care for, I Can find but Little--and that Little's mine!
Ah, but this wholesale Satire, you may say, Makes me pretend to be a Critic--Nay! Rather be roasted than to roast, say I; And I have been well roasted, by the way!
And lately, in a Studio, a Miss Sat smiling o'er a Book--and it was this: "The Pipes of Pan"--she showed it me, and read, Bidding me pay attention--it was Bliss!
Bliss Carman, who with genius absolute, My poor satiric Logic can confute; The only Poet who, in modern Days, His Poems can to clinking Gold transmute!
The vagrant Singer, how does he, good Lord, Compete with such a money-making Horde Of tinsel rhymesters that infest the Shops? They say he makes enough to pay his Board!
Why, be our Talent truly Art, how dare Refuse our Lucubrations everywhere? And if it's Rot, as our Rejections hint, God knows the things they print are Rot, for Fair!
I must abjure Dramatic Force, I must Take the Sub-Editor's decree on Trust, Or, lured by hope of selling something Good, Write out my Heart--then burn it in Disgust!
Oh, threats of Failure, hopes of Royalties! One thing at least I've sold--these Parodies; One thing is certain, Satire always sells; The Roast is read, no matter where it is.
Strange, is it not? that of the Authors who Publish in England, such a mighty Few Make a Success, though here they score a Hit? The British Public knows a Thing or Two!
By Revelations of the Past we've learn'd The Yankee Author usually is burn'd; All of our Story Writers say the Same; The London Critic all their Books have spurn'd.
I sent my Agent where the Buyers dwell, Some clever Stories of my own to sell: And by and by the Agent said to me, "One thing I sold--that's doing Mighty Well!"
So Heaven seems tame indeed when I behold Editions of Five Hundred Thousand sold; When Clippings show how Critics scorch me, then Hell's Roasting seems comparatively Cold!