Classic Poem

All hail ye doughty wielders o' The Pen!
Ye bold swashbucklers o' the daily press.
I hold ye high amongst the sons of men.
I honour the talent that ye all possess.
For talent ye must have or ye'd starve to death.
On newspapers the fittest sole survives,
That race is to the swift — the deep of breath,
The strength o' your good sword-arms saves your lives.
The press to-day's the arena of the world.
There, fame and gold — in time — reward each sword,
Which, when the daily dust of combat's curl'd,
Can unerring strike upon the gleaming word!
Once more all hail! And all prosperity.
(All in the day's work once you " roasted " me.)