I’ve bacilli for ten volumes for a dollar, in a bag—

Not a single germ among ’em that’s been ever known to drag.

Not a single germ among ’em, if you see they’re planted right,

But will grow into a novel that they’ll say is out of sight.

I have motifs by the thousand, motifs sad and motifs gay.

You can buy ’em by the dozen, or I’ll serve ’em every day:

I will serve ’em in the morning, as the milkman serves his wares;

I will serve ’em by the postman, or I’ll leave ’em on your stairs.

When you get down to your table with your head a vacuum,

You can say unto your helpmeet, “Has that quart of ideas come

That we ordered served here daily from that plot-man down the street?”

And you’ll find that I’ve been early my engagement to complete.

Should you want a book of poems that will bring you into fame,

Let me send a sample packet that will guarantee the same,

Holding “Seeds of Thought from Byron, Herrick, Chaucer, Tennyson.”

Plant ’em deep, and keep ’em watered, and you’ll find the deed is done.

I’ve a hundred comic packets that would make a Twain of Job;

I have “Seeds of Tales Narcotic; Tales of Surgeons and the Probe.”

I’ve a most superb assortment, on the very cheapest terms,

Done up carefully in tin-foil, of my A 1 “Trilby Germs.”

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