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Wherefore do the critics rage? 'Tis the Biographic Age. Every dolt who duly died In a book is glorified Uniformly with his betters; All his unimportant letters Edited by writers gifted, Every scrap of M.S. sifted, Classified by dates and ages, Pages multiplied on pages, Till the man is--for their pains-- Buried 'neath his own Remains. Every day the craze grows stronger, Art is long, but "lives" are longer. Those who were the most in view Block the stage post mortem too. Hark the tongues of either sex-- Reminiscences of X! Of his juvenile affections Hundreds write their Recollections, (None will recollect their writings) Telling of his love for whitings Fried in butter, or his fancy For bananas, buns, and Nancy. Thank the gracious gods on high, Every day some "Life" must die: Death alone is our salvation. Though'tisdubious consolation That of all these countless "Lives" Only the unfit survives. |
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