Breaking In

I called on the editor, A story in my grip. I laid it down before him, Then bethought me of some quip, Some turn of conversation, Some “jolly” or some speech, A sesame or something By which I’d surely reach And pink him in the vitals Of sympathy and such Emotionals and interest, And volunteered this much: “I feel I have a FUTURE In writing, don’t you see, In enlightening the public With prose and poetry!” I waited a few minutes Until the tale he’d read, He looked at me acutely With horoscopic dread. “You feel you have a FUTURE In writing, then,” he sneered. “You’d better get a PAST, sir,” Was all he volunteered.

(Suggested by an after-dinner story of the late David Graham Phillips.)