Poem: Blurb by Iford

There's a word that has puzzled me many a day,
Denoting a compound of blither and bray,
But for fitting its subject I count it superb,
That pungent expression, a publisher's "blurb."

On-o-mat-o-po-et-ic you'd call it, I s'pose,
Though its actual origin nobody knows.
It might fairly be Volapuk, Gaelic or Serb,
But I'll hazard it's Yankee, the publisher's "blurb."

It's an appetite-coaxer concocted, you feel,
To give you a zest for a fictional meal,
A cocktail, a julep with mint for a herb
To tickle the palate, a publisher's "blurb."

Ingredients? Some thunderous nouns, not a few
Grandiloquent, glittering adjectives, too,
Spice now and again with a resonant verb,
And here you've a genuine publisher's "blurb."

It will mostly be found as reliable, quite,
As the stuff which our goldmine flotationers write.
If you deprecate humbug your pen must curb
When you spread yourself out on a publisher's "blurb."

Lord knows, since my inky wayfaring began,
I've turned out most things that a journalist can.
But my spirit would quail and my dreams 'twould disturb
Were I hired for concocting a publisher's "blurb."

First published in The Bulletin, 12 January 1938

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This page contains a single entry by Perry Middlemiss published on June 25, 2005 9:37 AM.

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