Oh, Editor, Editor,

Oh, Editor, Editor,
Awful and grand,
Who holdest our fate
In the palm of thy hand,
Dost ever reflect
How one day thy ghost
To an Editor awf'ler
And grander will post?
Before him a great
Golden scroll is spread wide,
And a bottomless waste-basket
Yawns at his side.
With a swift searching glance
He reads through thy soul,
Then he looks at the basket,
Then looks at the scroll;
He purses his lips
And nibbles his pen,
And frowns for one long
Awful moment--and then--
Oh, Editor!--think! if thy
Poor crumpled soul
Fall into the basket
And not in the scroll!