Parmenas Mix

                One evening while reclining
                In my easy-chair, repining
O'er the lack of true religion, and the dearth of common sense,
                A solemn visaged lady,
                Who was surely on the shady
Side of thirty, entered proudly, and to crush me did commence:

                "I sent a poem here, sir,"
                Said the lady, growing fiercer,
"And the subject which I'd chosen, you remember, sir, was 'Spring';
                But, although I've scanned your paper,
                Sir, by sunlight, gas, and taper,
I've discovered of that poem not a solitary thing."

                She was muscular and wiry,
                And her temper sure was fiery,
And I knew to pacify her I would have to, fib like fun.
    ...

The editor sat with his head in his hands
    And his elbows at rest on his knees;
He was tired of the ever-increasing demands
    On his time, and he panted for ease.
The clamor for copy was scorned with a sneer,
    And he sighed in the lowest of tones:
"Won't somebody come with a dollar to cheer
    The heart of Emanuel Jones?"

Just then on the stairway a footstep was heard
    And a rap-a-tap loud at the door,
And the flickering hope that had been long deferred
    Blazed up like a beacon once more;
And there entered a man with a cynical smile
    That was fringed with a stubble of red,
Who remarked, as he tilted a sorry old tile
    To the back of an average head:

"I have come here to pay" Here the editor cried:
    "You're as welcome as ...