An Editor’s Dream

An editor bent o’er his desk

     The light was burning low.

The hair upon his noble brow

     Was white as driven snow.

His coat was off, suspenders down,

     He held the office shears;

His look across the vista swept

     Of unsuccessful years.

He saw his struggles all in vain,

     He saw his cash box bare;

He saw a stack of unpaid bills,

     The cause of his despair.

Subscribers? Ah! he had enough,

     A goodly list for years;

But as he thumbed page after page,

     He found all in arrears.

His weary head fell on the desk,

     His breath came long and deep;

And with the fatal list held firm,

     He fell into a sleep.

And then he dreamed a happy dream,

     A line, ten thousand strong,

Each holding ones and twos and fives,

     Paid up and passed along.

He saw a brand new Sunday suit,

     A pantry stocked complete;

New type, new presses and a block

     The finest on the street.

Then suddenly he woke – a thud

     Put all his dreams to rout;

He picked it up and found, alas!

     His corn-cob had gone out.

Nov. 27, ‘04