Perplex'd no more with editorial "Nay" To-morrow's Reputation cast away, And lose your College Education in The flippant, foolish Fiction of To-day.
And if the Bosh you write, the Trash you read, End in the Garbage Barrel--take no Heed; Think that you are no worse than other Scribes, Who scribble Stuff to meet the Public Need.
So, when WHO'S-WHO records your silly Name, You'll think that you have found the Road to Fame; And though ten thousand other Names are there, You'll fancy you're a Genius, just the Same!
Why, if an Author can fling Art aside, And in a Book of Balderdash take Pride, Wer't not a Shame--wer't not a Shame for him A Conscientious Novel to have tried?
Writing's a Trade where Newspapers pay best; LeGallienne this Verity confess'd; So join the Union, like the rest of us-- Who strikes for Art is looked at as a Jest.
And fear not, if the Editor refuse Your work, he has no more from which to choose; The Literary Microbe shall bring forth Millions of Manuscripts too bad to use.
When Fitch's Comedies have all gone past, Oh, the long Time Pinero's plays shall last, Which of Belasco's little Triumphs heed As Frohman's Self should heed a Bowery Cast!
A Moment's Halt--Pray see this charming, chaste Ladies' Home Journal--"On the New Shirt Waist"-- "Advice to Girls," and so forth--here is reach'd The Nothing women yearn for, undebased!
Would you a hurried Lunch Hour wish to spend About THE SECRET--hearken to me, Friend! The Editors themselves must guess their Way-- And on their Wives' and Sisters' Hints depend!
A Hair perhaps divides the Good from Bad; And Bok himself a Lot of Trouble had Before he found Stenographers were Wise-- Then, as they laughed or wept, his Soul was glad.
The Woman's Touch runs through our Magazines; For her the Home-and-Mother Tale, and Scenes Of Love-and-Action, Happy at the End-- The same old Plots, the same old Ways and Means.
The Theme once guess'd, the Tale's as good as told, Though Dialect and Local Color mould; This Style will last throughout Eternity, While Women buy our Books--if Books are sold.
But if, in spite of this, you build a Plot Which these immortal Elements has not, You gaze TO-DAY upon a Slip, which reads: "The Editor Regrets"--and such-like Rot.