  Quite an ordinary person Wrote an ordinary book; 'Twas the first he'd ever written, So a lot of pains he took. From a two-a-penny paper He some little factlets With some "stories of celebrities" By which the Public's gulled. Then of course he had a hero, And likewise a heroine, And a villain, and a villainess, Whose nefarious design Was most properly defeated In the chapter last but one,— Which described the happy ending— There you were! The thing was done. "Nothing strange," you'll say, "in that"; And, indeed, perhaps there wasn't Very much to wonder at, For the book was really never Calculated fame to win, And the author's coat grew shabby And his body very thin. And he pondered, and he pondered O'er his misery and ills, Till, one day, he met a party Who was posting up some bills. "What's the matter?" asked this person, "You are looking mighty glum. Books not selling? Advertise 'em. That's the dodge to make things hum." Look at 'Thingumbobby's Pills!' It's the advertising does it, And the owner's pocket fills. Puff 'em up; the Public likes it; And—(this from behind his hand)— It doesn't matter if it's Not quite true, you understand." So the author wrote another Book, and brought in Tsars, and Kings, And Popes, and noble ladies— Queens, and Duchesses, and things And "the problem" of the moment; And some politics, and cram, With tit-bits of foreign language Mixed with literary jam. And in type he had it stated That "the world was all agog" For this "epoch-making" novel, And—their memory to jog— The public had it daily In all kinds of sorts of ways Their curiosity ablaze. And from Brixton unto Ponder's End 'Twas daily talked about This wonderful new novel Long, long, long before 'twas out; I forget how many hundred Thousand copies have been sold; But it's brought the lucky author |
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