Sat a newspaper hack in his garret lone,
Driving a goose-quill for bread.
A well-smoked briar was in his hand,
He'd filled it again and again,
And between the whiffs, in a quavering voice,
He sang this "Song of the Pen."
Write! write! write!
Though my head is ready to split;
Write! write! write!
Though I fall asleep as I sit.