There lived in ancient Scribbletown a wise old writer-man,
Whose name was Homer Cicero Demosthenes McCann.
He’d written treatises and themes till, “For a change,” he said,
“I think I’ll write a children’s book before I go to bed.”

He pulled down all his musty tomes in Latin and in Greek;
Consulted cyclopÆdias and manuscripts antique,
Essays in Anthropology, studies in counterpoise—
“For these,” he said, “are useful lore for little girls and boys.”

He scribbled hard, and scribbled fast, he burned the midnight oil,
And when he reached “The End” he felt rewarded for his toil;
He said, “This charming Children’s Book is greatly to my credit.”
And now he’s sorely puzzled that no child has ever read it.