I’d like to be a publisher, And publish massive tomes
Written in a massive style by blokes with massive domes—­
Science books, and histories of Egypt’s day and Rome’s,
Books of psycho-surgery to mine the minds of momes,
And solemn pseudo-psychic stuff to tell where Topsy roams
When her poor clay is put away beneath the spreading holms;
Books about electrocuting little seeds with ohms
To sternly show them how to grow in sands, and clays, and loams,
And bravely burst infinitives, like angry agronomes;
Books on breeding aeroplanes and airing aerodromes,
On bees that buzz in bonnets and the kind that build the combs,
Made plain with pretty pictures done in crimsons, mauves, and chromes;
And diagrams to baulk the brain of Mr. Sherlock Holmes. 
I’d set the scientists to work like superheated gnomes,
And make them write and write and write until the printer foams
And lino men, made “loony”, go to psychopathic homes. 
I’d publish books, I would—­large books on ants and antinomes
And palimpsests and palinodes and pallid pallindromes: 
   But I wouldn’t be a publisher if . . . . 
               I got many “pomes.” 
                                 Would you?

GOOD NIGHT

And so, Good Night.  I’m rather tired. 
I hardly thought I’d be required
   To draw a lot of pictures, too,
   When I arranged to write for you. 
I found it hard, but did my best;
And now I need a little rest. 
   If you are pleased, why, that’s all right. 
   I’m rather tired.  And so

Good night!

This very charming gentleman, extremely old and gruff,
He slowly shook his head and took a great big pinch of snuff,
Then he spluttered and he muttered and he loudly shouted “Fie! 
To tear your books is wicked sir! and likewise all my eye!”
I don’t know what he meant by that.  He had such piercing eyes. 
And, he said, “Mark—­me—­boy!  Books will make you wise.”

This very charming gentleman said, “Hum,” and “Hoity, Toit! 
A book is not a building block, a cushion or a quoit. 
Soil your books and spoil your books?  Is that the thing to do? 
Gammon, sir! and Spinach, sir!  And Fiddle-faddle, too!”
He blinked so quick, and thumped his stick, then gave me such a stare. 
And he said, “Mark—­me—­boy!  Books—­need—­care!”

THE END