I, Q. K. P. Doesticks, of No Hall, Nowhere;

      No Castle, no Villa, no Place, Court, or Terrace;

      Who didn’t write “Junius,” or “Nothing to Wear,”

      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, —

      Let those three Nothings content you I pray,

      Say nothing yourself; leave me “Nothing to Say.”

      From time immemorial, people of fashion

      Have been the target of poets and penny wits,

      And been lampooned without stint or compassion,

      From Dan to Beersheba – from Dublin to Dennevitz;

      And our now-a-day rhymsters, taking the cue,

      Have aimed all their shots at the Fifth Avenue,

      Till the clever author of “Nothing to Wear,”

      Fired his broadside at Madison Square.

      Now I don’t consider this sort of thing personal,

      I’m not a bit of a dandy or fop;

      But the seed it is constantly sowing, is worse than all

      Others, and bears a most plentiful crop;

      For it all goes to strengthen the popular fallacy

      That, because a man lives in a “brown stone palace” he

      Must be a miser, a rogue and a knave,

      Without soul enough to condemn or to save —

      That a broadcloth coat argues sin, if not felony;

      If a man has the tact in the world to get well on, he

      Cannot be else than a thorough-paced scamp;

      That the “villanous rich” wear a cloak and a mask, all,

      And the greater the riches, the greater the rascal.

      That the cardinal virtues only endure,

      In the atmosphere with the “virtuous poor;”

      That nowhere are found the true Christian graces,

      Save closely allied to the dirtiest faces.

      I shall not contradict this delightful tradition,

      But beg – No, I won’t, I will take it – permission,

      To state, that I think there’s a word to be said,

      From a different text, on the opposite head.

      And so I’ll invent, as well as I’m able,

      A new home-made, allegorical fable;

      And my honest purpose shall be, to see

      If the scoundrel rich have not borne a part

      In those noble charities, which are

      The pride of this jolly old city’s heart.

      And if I shall find that the virtuous mob

      Have ever been known one farthing to pay,

      Without hoping a hundred-fold profit to make:

      Where the “rich man,” the “miser,” “aristocrat,” “snob,”

      Has poured out his thousands for Charity’s sake,

      I’ll lay down my pen, and have “Nothing to Say.”

      I shall not describe the Spirit of Cant,

      Of popular humbug, and vulgar rant,

      And tell how he looks in a tangible form,

      And give the length of his horns and claws,

      The spread of his wings, the width of his jaws,

      And detail the other proportions grim,

      Which belong to a powerful demon like him.

      Go and look at the melodramatic stage,

      When a “spectacle” piece is all the rage;