It
makes no difference what he writes,
It might be short or long;
It
may be good or bad or worse,
It may be tale or song.
For
it he finds a ready sale,
His own price for the same;
And
just because, despite his flaws,
The fellow has a name.
Folks
seek him for his autograph,
His name flies through the press;
The
swell set, just to honor him,
Oft gets in dire distress.
Thus
day by day he lives a life,
Some say of doubtful fame;
Meanwhile
we third-rate poet herd
Sweat hard to get his name.
June
27, ‘94
Pub.
in Boston
Courier,
July 8, ‘94
No comments:
Post a Comment