A PAINFUL POSITION.

It is my base biographer

I've haunted all day long.

He's writing out my character,

And every word is wrong.

With the wrong vices I'm indued,

And the wrong virtues too;

My motives he has misconstrued

As only he could do.

I read the copy sheet by sheet

As it issues from his pen,

And this, this travesty complete

Will be my doom from men!

I've wrestled hard with psychic force—

It is in vain, in vain!

His nerves were ever tough and coarse,

Impervious his brain.

Ah, could a merely psychic spell

Ignite an earthly match!

Or could a hand impalpable

Material "copy" snatch!

I'm as incompetent as mist

The enemy to rack.

Ah, if a spiritual fist

An earthly eye could black!

A paper-weight it lies below,

It cannot be dispersed!

The publisher will never know

Who read that copy first!

His gliding pen, for all my hate,

Has never gone awry;

O'er me. And here am I!