Poem: Those Standard Authors by Edward Dyson

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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This page contains a single entry by Perry Middlemiss published on February 4, 2005 8:53 AM.

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