Voracious Author, gorged with gold,
Your grasping greed shall not avail!
In vain you venture to unfold
Your false prehensile tale!
I view in scorn ( unmixed with awe )
The width of your capacious maw.
On me the onus has to fall
Of your malevolent effusions;
‘ Tis I who bear the brunt of all
Your libellous allusions;
To bolster up your turgid verse,
I jeopardise my very purse!
You do not hesitate to fleece
The Publisher you scorn to thank,
And when you manage to decrease
His balance at the bank,
Your face is lighted up with greed,
And you are lantern-jawed indeed!
Yet will I still heap coals of fire,
Until your coiffure is imbedded,
And you at last, perchance, shall tire
Of growing so hot-headed,
And realise that being funny
Is not a mere affair of money.
And so, in honour of your pow'rs,
A fragrant bouquet will I pick,
Of rare exotics, blossoms, flow'rs
Of speech and rhetoric;
I'll add a thistle, if I may,
And, round the whole, a wreath of bay.
The blossoms for your button-hole,
To mark your affluent condition,
Exotics to inspire your soul
To further composition.
Come, set the bays upon your brow!
Well, eat the thistle, anyhow!