The Great American Novel

We have waited for its coming with a patience fair to see,

We have dreamed about it nightly in a more or less degree;

We have urged our fellow writers to sit down and ground it out,

And our hopes and plans and pleadings they have all gone up the spout.

For a man who isn’t busy ‘tis an easy thing to do;

There are plots and local colors almost everywhere in view.

Why someone does not produce it is most hard to understand,

When the world is waiting for it with the money in its hand.

Ah! This great American novel, it’s been long upon the way;

Oftentimes one thinks he’s hit it, but he’s always been astray.

There is something that he misses, something lacking, sure as fate,

And we’re more than disappointed, and again we wait and wait.

But perhaps the fault lies deeper than the mighty novelist;

It may be he can’t produce with his Indiana fist.

Why this novel isn’t written maybe, we would humbly state,

Is because this newborn country is so brilliant and so great!

Nov. 12, ‘09