Writer folk across the bay
  Take the pains to see and say—
  All their upward palms in air:
  "Joaquin Miller's cut his hair!"
  Hasten, hasten, writer folk—
  In the gutters rake and poke,
  If by God's exceeding grace
  You may hit upon the place
  Where the barber threw at length
  Samson's literary strength.
  Find it, find it if you can;
  Happy the successful man!
  He has but to put one strand
  In his beaver's inner band
  And his intellect will soar
  As it never did before!
  While an inch of it remains
  He will noted be for brains,
  And at last ('twill so befall)
  Fit to cease to write at all.