Who never have visited London or Paris;

Who am not a phantom, a myth, or a mystery,

But a “homo,” as solid as any of history;

As real as Antony, Cæsar, or Brutus,—

A wide-awake Yankee, so “tarnation ’cute” as

To always write Nothings, while Nothings will pay,

Am the author of this Nothing—Nothing to Say.

I mention this fact in advance, that Miss P***

May not strive to embezzle the laurels from me.

That her Reverend friend may attend to his Litany,

And leave me my fame, if perchance I shall get any.

I deemed it best, to set at rest,

This question before it was started, lest

Some terrible girl from the far countree,

Without proper regard to veracitee,

Should haste to town, to drag me down

From my envied post of poetic renown.

Miss P***, I’ve a favor to ask.—If ’tis true,

That “Nothing to Wear,” and “Nothing to Do,”

And “Nothing to Eat,” were all written by you,—

 Prev. P 4/19 next