And he pondered, and he pondered
O'er his misery and ills,
Till, one day, he met a party
Who was posting up some bills.
"What's the matter?" asked this person,
"You are looking mighty glum.
Books not selling? Advertise 'em.
That's the dodge to make things hum."
"Look at 'Whatsit's Soap,' and so on!
Look at 'Thingumbobby's Pills!'
It's the advertising does it,
And the owner's pocket fills.
Puff 'em up; the Public likes it;
And—(this from behind his hand)—
It doesn't matter if it's
Not quite true, you understand."
So the author wrote another
Book, and brought in Tsars, and Kings,
And Popes, and noble ladies—
Queens, and Duchesses, and things
And "the problem" of the moment;
And some politics, and cram,
With tit-bits of foreign language
Mixed with literary jam.
And in type he had it stated
That "the world was all agog"
For this "epoch-making" novel,
And—their memory to jog—
The public had it daily
In all kinds of sorts of ways
Thrust upon them, till it set
Their curiosity ablaze.
And from Brixton unto Ponder's End
'Twas daily talked about
This wonderful new novel
Long, long, long before 'twas out;
I forget how many hundred
Thousand copies have been sold;
But it's brought the lucky author
Notoriety, and gold.