Of all stupid bores,
Don't you think, Dr. Storrs,
Editorial chores
Are the most so?
You must be so discreet
In your Editor's seat,
For fear The Drum-Beat
May not suit folks?
And as each thinks he's smart
In the delicate art
Of taking a part
In such business,
You have loads by the bale
Of jokes that are stale,
Sent you by each mail,
(And by female!)
You have essayists crude,
And poets who've woo'd
The muses, and rued
Their rejection!
No rest for your feet,
In hall or in street;
At each sound of Drum-Beat
You're expected
To parade, in full dress,
Fourteen 'columns' or less!
How your duties must 'press'
On your mind, Sir!
No time can you spare
For mere every-day care!
Each common affair
Gets the go-by!
(I strongly suspect
Your Wife must object;
Or is she quite wrecked
On "Comittees?")
But though care can't be drowned,
And while Drum-Beat shall sound,
Uniform-ly you're found
'In fatigue dress,'
When once more you possess
All the blessings of peace,
You'll forget all but this:—
That you've beaten!