
I know, I know. I shouldn’t allow people to take advantage of my better nature, but what on earth can a chap do?
Now I have genuine sympathy for novelists. Sad creatures that they are, sitting in their garrets, churning out page after page covered in an infinite multitude of words. It must be the least saleable form of art ever contrived.
Take poetry. I can be at table with friends and suddenly a waiter appears bearing a bill. What to do? Simple; I summon the waiter to my side, take the bill, turn it over and after licking my indelible pencil I start to write.
There is folly and worse
But what can you say.
About the heart of a man
Who won’t let you pay
With a few lines of verse.
I read it to the assembled company, the waiter pales, the owner in the corner flinches as…
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