Editor Owen, of San Jose,
Commonly known as “our friend J. J. ,”
Weary of scribbling for daily bread,
Weary of writing what nobody read,
Slept one day at his desk and dreamed
That an angel before him stood and beamed
With compassionate eyes upon him there.
Editor Owen is not so fair
In feature, expression, form or limb
But glances like that are familiar to him;
And so, to arrive by the shortest route
At his visitor’s will he said simply: “Toot.”
“Editor Owen,” the angel said,
“Scribble no more for your daily bread.
Your intellect staggers and falls and bleeds,
Weary of writing what nobody reads.
Eschew now the quill—in the coming years
Homilize man through his idle ears.
Go lecture!” “Just what I intended to do,”
Said Owen. The angel looked pained and flew.
Editor Owen, of San Jose,
Commonly known as “our friend J. J. ,”
Scribbling no more to supply his needs,
Weary of writing what nobody reads.
Passes of life each golden year
Speaking what nobody comes to hear.