Poetry Archives

‘Come, see,’ said he, ‘my four-foot shelf,
          A forty volume row;
And every one I wrote myself,
          But that, of course, you know.’
I stared, I searched a memory dim,
          For though an author too,
Somehow I’d never heard of him,—
          None of his books I knew.

Said I: ‘I’d like to borrow one,
          Fond memories to recall.’
Said he: ‘I’ll gladly give you some,
          And autograph them all.’
And so a dozen books he brought,
          And signed tome after tome:
Of course I thanked him quite a lot,
          And took them home.

So now I have to read his work,
          Though dry as dust it be;
No portion of it may I shirk,
          Lest he should question me.
This tale is true,—although it looks
          To me a bloody shame,
A guy could father forty books,
          yet no one know his name.