Classic Poem

There are two authors whom I praise,
Their works are my delight
They've Shakespeare beaten seven ways,
And even H. B. Wright.
You cannot mention anything
That they've not touched upon,
And that's the reason why I sing
Of Ibid and Anon.

I wonder where they hid themselves
And where they lived and died.
You cannot find their books on shelves,
I know it, for I've tried.
Yet some must have the books they wrote,
And some their pages con,
For every author loves to quote
From Ibid and Anon.

Now Ibid's works run more to prose,
Statistics and the like.
With poetry Anon just flows
Like water o'er a dike.
Though critics may dispute their claims.
Yet when we're dead and gone,
Still bright will shine the deathless names
Of Ibid and Anon.