Trodden worms may turn -- to vipers,
There are bounds set to all gripers
Of the Chance -- from kings to swipers
In a pub.
Certain gentlemen respected
In this town, and well-connected,
Have established The Rejected
Authors' Club.
Now the Editor tyrannic
Shall no more with smile Satanic --
Or perhaps in jealous panic --
Drop their screed
In his basket-grave infernal,
Wherein rest, in peace eternal,
Better things than in his journal
People read.
Let that Editorial Vulture
In his pages give sepulture
To his friends' work; Men of Culture
Will not care.
He no more shall bullyrag them,
Satirise and nag and scrag them --
For wild horses will not drag them
To his lair.
They have found a place of meeting
That will take a lot of beating;
There you may, for moments fleeting
Shoulders rub
With stout poets, rich and wary,
Who write verses light and airy --
And they've made me Secretary
Of the Club.
Our club rooms -- we're no ascetics --
Are a lesson in aesthetics,
And our sofas are not bed ticks
Rep-disguised.
If your saw our fine-cut glasses,
And our pictures -- each first-class is --
You would be -- and this no gas is --
Much surprised.
In our club there no no needy
Bards or storytellers seedy,
Who demand with voices greedy
Coin or gore --
No poor devils who with scowling
Brows write love-songs, while the prowling
Wolf of Hunger comes a-howling
To their door.
If with us you chanced to mingle,
It would make your pulses tingle
Just to hear the joyful jingle
Of the coin
In our pockets -- that's a chiming
That is better than your rhyming,
And your poor Parnassus climbing --
Will you join?
First published in The Bulletin, 16 September 1909
[Note: part 2 of this poem will be posted next week.]
