We writer folk who're busy still, Contriving books for men to read, With certain literary skill Are all misfortunate indeed In that our task must ever be Made difficult to a degree By many dead men's rivalry. The doctor scores a meed of gain When dies a big competitor; The lawyer sees his rival slain, And has a dozen clients more; The architect, and actor too, Are helped by Death to chances new, And see great benefits accrue. Dead men our keenest rivals are; Their books repeated without sense Fill all suburban shelves, and bar Our dusty way to affluence. As 'tis we never may secure The splendid sales that would be sure If our books sold as furniture.
First published in The Bulletin, 21 November 1918
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