“How much am I bid?” said the spry auctioneer,
“For the lays of a well-known bard?”
The bard, incog, who was hovering near,
Glanced up, and his breath came hard.
“I am offered a dime! Just think of it, gents!
For these ‘Songs of the Dewy Dawn’!
Are you all done bidding? Ten! ten cents—
Ten cents—and—going—and—gone!
“You don’t know elegant books from trash!”
Joked the jubilant auctioneer;
The dubious author bit his mustache,
And felt confoundedly queer.
“A beautiful copy of Shakespeare’s pomes!
How much am I bid? Look alive!
A right nice work to embellish your homes;
Five cents! Sold to cash, for five!”
The incog singer twinkled his eye
And inwardly said with a thrill:
“American poetry doesn’t sell high,
But I’d hate to go cheap as old Bill.”