More Misrepresentative Men

More Misrepresentative Men
Harry Graham

Graham Harry

More Misrepresentative Men

Authors Foreword

(To the Publisher)

WHEN honest men are all in bed,
We poets at our desks are toiling,
To earn a modicum of bread,
And keep the pot a-boiling;
We weld together, bit by bit,
The fabric of our laboured wit.

We see with eyes of frank dismay
The coming of this Autumn season,
When bards are driven to display
Their feast of rhyme and reason;
With hectic brain and loosened collar,
We chase the too-elusive dollar.

While Publishers, in search of grist,
Despise our masterly inaction,
And shake their faces in our fist,
Demanding satisfaction,
We view with vague or vacant mind
The grim agreements we have signed.

For though a willing public gives
Its timely share of cash assistance,
The author (like the dentist) lives
A hand-to-mouth existence;
And Publishers, those modern Circes,
Make pig's-ear purses of his verses.

Behold! How ill, how thin and pale,
The features of the furtive jester!
Compelled by contracts to curtail
His moments of siesta!
A true White Knight is he to-day
(Nuit Blanche, as Stevenson would say).

Ah, surely he has laboured well,
Constructing this immortal sequel, —
A work which no one could excel,
And very few can equal, —
A volume which, I dare to say,
Is epoch-making, in its way.

When other poets' work is not,
These verses shall retain their label;
When Herford is a thing forgot,
And Ade an ancient fable;
When Goops no longer give a sign
Of Burgess's empurpled kine.

My Publishers, I love you so!
Your well-secreted virtues viewing;
Who never let your right hand know
Whom your left hand is doing;
Who hold me firmly in your grip,
And crack your cheque-book, like a whip!

My Publishers, make no mistake,
You have in me an avis rara,
So write a princely cheque, and make
It payable to bearer;
I love you, as I said before,
But oh! I love your money more!

Publisher's Preface

(To the Author)

VORACIOUS Author, gorged with gold,
Your grasping greed shall not avail!
In vain you venture to unfold
Your false prehensile tale!
I view in scorn (unmixed with awe)
The width of your capacious maw.

On me the onus has to fall
Of your malevolent effusions;
'Tis I who bear the brunt of all
Your libellous allusions;
To bolster up your turgid verse,
I jeopardise my very purse!

You do not hesitate to fleece
The Publisher you scorn to thank,
And when you manage to decrease
His balance at the bank,
Your face is lighted up with greed,
And you are lantern-jawed indeed!

Yet will I still heap coals of fire,