Is but a ceaseless round of milk and honey,
Who use your wondrous word-compelling powers
For us in telling tales (and making money),
How you must laugh to rake the dollars in,
The publishers—how badly you must bleed them;
Your tales are good, but yet, ere you begin
On more, just think of us who've got to read them.
It frightens us to hear your Ninety-One
Is mortgaged—for the prospect's not inviting,
To think of all that may and will be done,