Ye Critics, who with bilious eye Peruse my incoherent medley, Prepared to let your arrows fly, With cruel aim and purpose deadly,
Desist a moment, ere you spoil The harvest of a twelvemonth's toil! Remember, should you scent afar The crusted jokes of days gone by,
What conscious plagiarists we are: Moliere and Seymour Hicks and I, For, as my bearded chestnuts prove, Je prends mon bien ou je le trouve!
My wealth of wit I never waste On Chestertonian paradox; My humour, in the best of taste, Like Miss Corelli's, never shocks;
For sacred things my rev'rent awe Resembles that of Bernard Shaw. Behold how tenderly I treat Each victim of my pen and brain,
And should I tread upon his feet, How lightly I leap off again; Observe with what an airy grace I fling my inkpot in his face!
And those who seek at Christmas time, An inexpensive gift for Mother, Will fine this foolish book of rhyme As apposite as any other,
And suitable for presentation To any poor or near relation. To those whose intellect is small, This work should prove a priceless treasure;
To persons who have none at all, A never-ending fount of pleasure; A mental stimulus or tonic To all whose idiocy is chronic.
And you, my Readers ( never mind Which category you come under ), Will, after due reflection, find My verse a constant source of wonder;
‘ Twill make you think, I dare to swear — But what you think I do not care!
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