There was a most persuasive writer, I am told,

Who, with a difference, had the Midas touch:

Whatever stuff he wrote, his writing sold.

Good, bad, or fair, it did not matter much.

He was a yea-sayer of the deepest dye,

As clean and solid as a cake of soap.

He lathered well, and kept his income high,

In his bright lexicon no-word like "Nope."

What people wanted said, he gladly said,

Because he also yearned to be well read.

They will remember me when I am dead,"

He thought, but he was wrong. Not being clay,

But soap that lived by making lather pay,

He did not die. He washed himself away.

There was another writer, so I've heard,

Who, in his novels, tolled the somber note.

He'd spend a week deciding on a word,

Yet barely sold the best of what he wrote.

A critic said, "Fit audience though few

Will like him if they like a story stark."

He read the critic twice, and took the cue:

His bite was much more deadly than his bark.

What people wanted filled him with disgust.

He was the kind no readers feel they must.

They will remember me when I am dust,"

He cried, but he was wrong. It was no blow

To them; they let him come, and let him go,

And did not know. They simply did not know.