Valentines

To a Rewrite Man: Reporters furnish you with plot, With facts, with dates, with names, and if you Turn out good stuff sometimes—Why not? You lucky stiff, you!

To a Dramatic Critic: You write stuff once a week or so, And when it’s punk, why, you should worry. One alibi will always go: “I had to write it in a hurry.”

To a Bold Editorial Writer: They read him and they cry: He’s not afraid, This supergink, to call a spade a spade! He says Jess Willard’s just a great big bluff! Yea, brothers, but he doesn’t sign his stuff.

To a Lineman: When the pile of A1 contributions is low, And Babette is especially cunning, He phones to the office, “Because of the snow, The Northwestern trains aren’t running.”

To a Society Editor: Says, girls, don’t you think it must be just immense? Can you imagine a job that’s as pleasant As witnessing all the big nuptial events Without being stung for a present?

To a Reel Critic: She pays no attention to riffraff like me. She thinks she is awfully smart, ’Cause she once got a letter from Francis X. B. And an autographed picture from Hart.

To a Sporting Editor: Wherefore that broad, contented smile, adorning The visage of the editor of spo’t? He doesn’t have to wait until the morning To see the Gumps and read what L⸺r wrote.

To a Cashier: Every day I murmur: “Lord! How I love that Mr. W⸺d!” Honest, Al, I think you’re fine. Won’t you be my Valentine?