Impertinent Poems

Page 57.
Chronicles of the Little Tot Told to the Little Tot Rimes to Be Read Etc.
Death comes with a crawl, or comes with a pounce, And whether he's slow, or spry, It isn't the fact that you're dead that counts But only—how did you die?
New York Dodge Publishing Company 220 East 23rd Street Copyright, 1903, by Edmund Vance Cooke Copyright, 1907, by Dodge Publishing Company
Anticipating the intelligent critic of Impertinent Poems, it may well be remarked that the chief impertinence is in calling them poems. Be that as it may, the editors and publishers of The Saturday Evening Post, Success and Ainslee's, and, in a lesser degree, Metropolitan, Independent, Booklovers' and New York Herald share with the author the reproach of first promoting their publicity. That they are now willing to further reduce their share of the burden by dividing it with the present publishers entitles them to the thanks of the author and the gratitude of the book-buying public.
E. V. C.

You don't buy poetry. (Neither do I.) Why? You cannot afford it? Bosh! you spend Editions de luxe on a thirsty friend. You can buy any one of the poetry bunch For the price you pay for a business lunch. Don't you suppose that a hungry head, Like an empty stomach, ought to be fed? Looking into myself, I find this true, So I hardly can figure it false in you.
And you don't read poetry very much. (Such Is my own case also.) But, you cry, I haven't the time. Beloved, you lie. When a scandal happens in Buffalo, You ponder the details, con and pro; If poets were pugilists, couldn't you tell Which of the poets licked John L.? If poets were counts, could your wife be fooled As to which of the poets married a Gould? And even my books might have some hope If poetry books were books of dope.
You're a little bit swift, you say to me, See! You open your library. There you show Your favorite poets, row on row, Chaucer, Shakespeare, Tennyson, Poe, A Homer unread, an uncut Horace, A wholly forgotten William Morris. My friend, my friend, can it be you thought That these were poets whom you had bought? These are dead men's bones. You bought their mummies To display your style, like clothing dummies. But when do they talk to you? Some one said That these were poets which should be read, So here they stand. But tell me, pray, How many poets who live to-day Have you, of your own volition, sought, Discovered and tested, proved and bought , With a grateful glow that the dollar you spent Netted the poet his ten per cent.?