Classic Poem

'Tis said an author who had starved to death
Went walking some years after he had lost his breath
In spirit up Fleet Street, then down the Strand
And found himself before a Bookman's stand.
" What's this? " he mused, as in his hand
A book
He took.
" Dear me, my verse! " he cried, and kissed the tome.
" You killed me — cost me roof, and hearth, and home.
To publish you I spent
My last red cent,
But none would buy,
And I
Was soon the sorry shadow of my former self,
While you lay snugly on my dusty shelf.
Heigho! " he sighed.
" You were my pride,
And ruin! " Quoth the Book, " Not so —
You died too soon to really know.
I have become
A rarity, and worth a wondrous sum,
And through me now
You wear a bright green laurel on your brow! "
E'en as the volume spake
A mortal came, the little book did take,
And as the spirit watched him from the shade
Some twenty pounds for it he forthwith paid.

" Egad! " the author cried, as back he sped
To Hades, " I have resting on my head
Enough of hay entwined to feed a horse!
I'm proud of that — O yes, I am, of course.
But what a shame to decorate
An author's pate
And leave his stomach to disintegrate! "