You can’t help trash being written for the theatres of Britain
And ‘swells’ won’t be always waiting for their ‘pets’ at each stage-door,
And ere long the undressed syrens, may be swept away galore.”
Quoth the Drama, “Nevermore!”
Then the poor old Drama, sneering, took the cue for disappearing,—
And it pulled its mantle round it, and stalked slowly to the door—
And its groan was something fearful, as it said in accents tearful,
As it sadly bent its optics on the carpet-covered floor—
“Look here, old poetic party, I shall bet you ten to four,—
’Twill be better, Nevermore!—