The Song Of The Waste-Paper Basket

O bard of fortune, you deem me nought     But a mark for your careless scorn.     For I am the echo-less grave of thought     That is strangled before its born.     You think perchance that I am a doom     Which only a dunce should dread,     Nor dream Ive been the dishonoured tomb     Of the noblest and brightest dead.     The brightest fancies that eer can fly     From the labouring minds of men     Are often written in lines awry,     And marred by a blundering pen;     And thus it comes that I gain a part     Of what to the world is loss,     Of genius lost for the want of art,     Of pearls that are set in dross.     And though I am of a lowly birth     My fame has been cheaply bought,     A power am I, for I rob the earth     Of the brightest gems of thought;     The Press gains much of my lawful share,     I am wronged without redress,     But I have revenge, for I think it fair     That I should plunder the Press.     Youd pause in wonder to read behind     The lines of some songs I see;     The soul of the singer I often find     In songs that are thrown to me.     But the song of the singer I bury deep     With the scrawl of the dunce and clown,     And both from the eyes of the world I keep,     And the hopes of both I drown.