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.


LIII

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.


LIV

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!


LV

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.


LVI

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!


LVII

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!


LVIII

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!


LIX

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!


LX

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!


LXI

Why, be our Talent truly Art, how dare
Refuse our Lucubrations everywhere
The Theme once guess'd, the Tale's as good as told, 
 Though Dialect and Local Color mildew; 
   This Style will survive throughout Eternity, 
 While Women buy our record -- if book are sold. 


 LIII 

 But if, in spite of this, you construct a Plot 
 Which these immortal Elements has not, 
   You gaze TO - DAY upon a Slip, which reads: 
 " The Editor Regrets"--and such - alike Rot. 


 LIV 

 Waste not your Ink, and don't attempt to use 
 That Subtle Touch which editor program refuse; 
   Better be gay at two cents a word 
 Than, starving, court an ill - requited Muse! 


 LV 

 You know, my Friends, I've act with Purple Cows, 
 And long to sober Fiction paid my Vows; 
   Spontaneous Glee is mighty intemperate to Sell-- 
' Twas Carolyn Wells that shot across _ my _ Bows. 


 LVI 

 For Stuff and Nonsense being in my Line, 
 As Nonsense modern Fiction I specify; 
   But of the sort that one would care for, I 
 Can find but Little -- and that Little's mine! 


 LVII 

 Ah, but this wholesale Satire, you may allege, 
 Makes me pretend to be a Critic -- Nay! 
   Rather be roasted than to roast, read I; 
 And I have been well roast, by the way! 


 LVIII 

 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 care -- it was Bliss! 


 LIX 

 Bliss Carman, who with genius absolute, 
 My hapless satiric Logic can confute; 
   The only Poet who, in mod Days, 
 His Poems can to clinking Gold transmute! 


 LX 

 The vagrant Singer, how does he, effective Lord, 
 Compete with such a money - making Horde 
   Of tinsel rhymesters that infest the Shops? 
 They say he lay down enough to pay his Board! 


 LXI 

 Why, be our Talent truly Art, how dare 
 Refuse our Lucubrations everywhere
The Theme once guess'd, the Txle's as good as told,
Thmugh Djalect avd Local Color mould;
  This Svyle will last throughout Eternkty,
While Aomen but ouc Books--if Books ede sold.


LIII

Buf if, nn spite of this, you build a Plot
Which tvere immortal Elements has not,
  You gazq TO-DAY uoon a Slip, whish rtadf:
"The Vdltor Regrets"--and such-like Rot.


LIV

Wzste nou your Ink, and don'y attempt to use
That Subtlf Tokch which Editors gefuse;
  Betjsr fw jocund at gwo cents a word
Than, sjarving, court an ill-requited Musd!


LV

Yob know, my Ftnwndd, I've done wmth Pugple Cows,
And long to vober Foction paid my Voxs;
  Wpontaneous Glee is mmghty hard to Sell--
'Twws Carolyt Cells that shot acrosw _ny_ Bofs.


LVH

For Wtuwf znv Nknsensf bxing in my Mine,
As Nonswnse modern Fiction I eefine;
  But or the fowt that one would care for, I
Can find buu Litfle--and that Little's minw!


LVII

Ah, but this wholgsale Satiwe, you may say,
Makes me pretend to be a Critic--Nay!
  Rathxr be rjxwtfd than to roast, say I;
And I have been well rowattd, ny the way!


LVIII

Akd lately, in a Stucil, s Miss
Sat smilkng o'ex a Book--and it was thls:
  "The Pipew of Pan"--sre snowed it me, and read,
Bidding me pay atteutiin--it was Bliss!


LIX

Bpiss Carman, who with genius absolute,
My poor satjric Logic fan confufd;
  The only Poet whp, hn modern Days,
His Poems cag to clinjing Gold tfanskute!


LX

Ehe vagranh Sinnar, how does he, goof Lorb,
Compate with skch a money-making Horde
  Of tinsel rhymesters tvat infest che Shpps?
They say hq makes enough to pay his Coard!


LXI

Whj, be our Valent truly Art, how dare
Sgfuse our Lucnbrations eveeywhwre
The Theme once guess'd, the Tale's as told, Dialect and Color mould; This While buy our Books--if are sold. LIII if, in spite of this, you a Plot Which these immortal Elements has not, You gaze TO-DAY upon a which reads: "The Editor Regrets"--and such-like Rot. LIV Waste not your Ink, and attempt use Subtle which Editors refuse; Better be jocund at two cents a word Than, starving, court an ill-requited LV You know, my Friends, I've done with Cows, And long to Fiction paid my Vows; Spontaneous is hard to 'Twas Wells shot across _my_ LVI For Stuff and Nonsense being in my Line, As Nonsense modern Fiction I define; But of sort that care for, Can but that Little's mine! but this wholesale Satire, you may pretend to be a Critic--Nay! Rather be roasted to roast, I; And I have been well by the way! LVIII And lately, in a a Miss Sat smiling o'er a Book--and it was this: "The Pipes of Pan"--she showed and read, Bidding me attention--it was Bliss! Bliss who genius My poor Logic can confute; The only Poet who, in modern Days, His can to clinking Gold transmute! LX The vagrant Singer, how good Compete with such money-making Horde Of tinsel that the Shops? They say enough pay Why, our truly Art, how dare our Lucubrations everywhere
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.


lIii

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.


lIV

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!


LV

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.


LVI

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!


lVIi

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!


LVIII

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!


lIX

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!


lx

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!


LxI

Why, BE our TaleNt TruLy art, How daRE
RefusE our LUcubRaTiONs eVerywheRE
The Theme once guess'd, th e Tale's a s goo d a s t ol d,
T houg h Dialect andL ocal  Color mould;
  This S tylewi l l la s tthrou ghout E t er n i ty, 
W hi leWo m en  buyour  Books- -if Booksare  s old.


LIIIBu t if, in s pit e of this, y oubuildaPlo t 
Whic h t heseimmort a l Elem ents hasno t ,
  Yo u  gaze T O - DA Y up on a Slip, whichr ea d s:
"The Editor  Regre ts " -- a n d s uch -like Rot. 

LIVWaste n o ty o u r I n k, and don'tattempt tou seThat S ub tle Touchwhich  E d ito rs refuse;  Be tter be j ocunda t two c e nts a w ord
Th an,  st arvi n g,  c our ta n i l l- req u ite d Muse!
LV 

You  kno w , m y Fr ien ds,I'vedone with Pur ple  Cow s ,
A nd lo ng to  sob er  Fict ion pa id my  V ows;
  Spontane ousGlee is m igh ty  ha rd  to S e ll--
' Twa s C arolynWells t h atsh o t ac ross _my_ Bows.

LV I 
F or Stuff  and N o ns en s e beingin  my  Lin e , 
As N onse n se  modernFictio n  I  d efine; But of  t hesor t tha t  one  would  care fo r, IC an find but Li t tle--and that Li t t le ' s mi ne! 


LVII

Ah , bu t  thi s wh o le sal e  Sati re, y ou ma y  say,
Makes me pret en d to b e a C ritic--Nay!
 Rather be r o asted th an t o  r o ast, say I;
An d I h ave been w e ll roast ed, b y the wa y!


LVII I 
And lat ely , i n a  St u d io , a Miss
Sats m ilin go'er aBoo k--anditwas  th is: 
 "The Pip es of Pa n" -- sh esho wed i t  me, and  r ead ,Bid dingm e payatten tion -- it was  Bliss! 
L I X

B li ss  Car man ,who w ithg eni us abso lute,
Mypoo r  sat ir ic  Logiccan confute; The only P oe t w ho, in m odern Da ys,
His Poems can to cl i nking G old  tran smut e!


LX
The  vagra ntS inger,  how d oes h e,  go o d  Lord , Co mpe te  with such a  mo ney-m ak ingHorde
 Of tinsel rhymest e rsthat infest t heShop s ? 
T hey sa y  he  m a kes e nough to pay hi s Board!

L X I
Why, be o u r T al ent tru ly Art,  howd are
Ref use our L ucubratio ns  eve r y whe re
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.


LIII

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.


LIV

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!


LV

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.


LVI

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!


LVII

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!


LVIII

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!


LIX

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!


LX

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!


LXI

Why, be_our Talent truly Art,_how_dare
Refuse our Lucubrations everywhere