I answer thus: We both write truths—great, stern, solemn, unquenchable truths—couched in more or less ridiculous language.
I, as a rule use rhyme, he does not; therefore, I am his Superior (which is also a lake in his great and glorious country.)
I scorn, with the unutterable scorn of the despiser of pettiness, to take a mean advantage of him.
He writes, he sells, he is read (more or less); why then should I rack my brains and my rhyming dictionary? I will see the public hanged first!
I sing of America, of the United States, of the stars and stripes, of Oshkosh, of Kalamazoo, and of Salt Lake City.
I sing of the railroad cars, of the hotels, of the breakfasts, the lunches, the dinners, and the suppers;
Of the soup, the fish, the entrées, the joints, the game, the puddings and the ice-cream.
I sing all—I eat all—I sing in turn of Dr. Bluffem’s Antibilious Pills.
No subject is too small, too insignificant, for Nature’s poet.
I sing of the cocktail, a new song for every cocktail, hundreds of songs, hundreds of cocktails.