Explore "The Cry of the Author" by Harry Graham on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
O my Publisher, how dreadfully you bore me! / Of your censure I am frankly growing tired. / With your diatribes eternally before me, / How on earth can I expect to feel inspired? / You are orderly, no doubt, and systematic, / In that office where recumbent you recline; / You would modify your methods in an attic / Such as mine.
If you lived a sort of hand-to-mouth existence / (Where the mouth found less employment than the hand); / If your rhymes would lend your humour no assistance, / And your wit assumed a form that never scann'd; / If you sat and waited vainly at your table / While Calliope declined to give her cues, / You would realise how very far from _stable_ / Was the _Mews_!