Why then you may be certain, though the thought may give you pain,
That your mother wasn't splendid, or your toil would be in vain.
An unsympathetic mother who neglects her baby boy,
Oh, she knows not what advantages she showers on his head.
Let her frown upon her infant and deprive him of his toy,
That's the training for a novelist who wishes to be read.
He had better have a sea-cook for his mother, or a gun,
Than one who, being splendid, blasts the future of her son.
So, ye publishers of novels, if your mills are short of grist,
Find a child whose mother loathes him, and adopt him as your own,