In these days . . .

In these days, every mother's son or daughter
 Writes verse, which no one reads except the writer,
 Although, uninked, the paper would be whiter,
 And worth, per ream, a hare, when you have caught her.
 Hundreds of unstaunched Shelleys daily water
 Unanswering dust; a thousand Wordsworths scribble;
 And twice a thousand Corn Law Rhymers dribble
 Rhymed prose, unread. Hymners of fraud and slaughter,
 By cant called other names, alone find buyers -
 Who buy, but read not. "What a loss in paper,"
 Groans each immortal of the host of sighers!
 "What profanation of the midnight taper
 In expirations vile! But I write well,
 And wisely print. Why don't my poems sell?"