An Editorial Soliloquy

I sit all day in my gorgeous den and I am the boss of a hundred men; my enemies shake at my slightest scowl, I make the country sit up and howl; to the farthest ends of this blooming land men feel the weight of my iron hand.

But, oh, for the old, old shop, Where I printed the Punktown Dirk, And the toil and stress with the darned old press That always refused to work!

I soothe my face with a rich cigar and ride around in a motor car; I go to a swell cafe to dine and soak my works in the rarest wine. Oh, nothing's too rich for your Uncle Jones, whose check is good for a heap of bones!

But, oh, for the old, old shop, Where I set up the auction bills, And printed an ad of a liver pad, And took out the pay in pills!

I've won the prize in the worldly game, my name's inscribed on the roll of fame; my home is stately, in stately grounds, I have my yacht and I ride to hounds; nothing I've longed for has been denied; is it any wonder I point with pride?

But, oh, for the old, old shop, In the dusty Punktown street! I was full of hope as I wrote my dope, Though I hadn't enough to eat!