I was asked one night
Believe me, ‘tis true
What, with all of my writings
Was I going to do?
The question struck me
As somewhat queer
It isn’t as if
I had ambitions here
Going to do?
Never gave it a thought
I just love to write
And now I’d been caught
Editor, now what do you feel
Each time you put the paper to bed?
As you put on your coat
And the stairs feel the heel of your tread?
Is it happiness, then that occupies your mind
Or is tit despair at the world in its mess?
How do you stand so much disappointment
Do you erase it with a good game of chess?
It has always been a mystery to me
When I read my paper each day
How the writer and editors can still smile
When there is so much foul play.