The Grumble-Grum of Great Contribution, hark!
Did clatter and wimble down Literature's Arc.
It wore a felt hat of the deepest despair,
And measured your words by a yardstick of rare
Dantesque Decorum and Virgil's Vast Verse,
Then sighed, "Alas, lad! You've made matters worse!"
Your Six Stories Glumpled in corners forlorn,
Your Fifteen thin Poems were Splutter-Snatch-shorn.
"For Homer," it barked, with a shake and a shrug,
"Had Heroes and Gods in his overstuffed rug!
You've only got humans, with teacups and dread,
And footnotes that haven't been properly read!"
Then down from the shelf, where the Masters all sat,
Came a Flibberty-Gibbet with stripes on its hat.
"To ask for a Scale is to measure the wind!
A Contributor's Worth is not neatly pinned.
The point where you've done it is after you've done,
And before the great critics have solemnly spun
Their threads of 'Not Nearly' and 'Surely Too Small,'
You've Wickle-Wick-written, and that is your all!"
For Shakespeare himself, when he scribbled his plays,
Was merely a poet in a furious haze.
He didn't check clocks for the Lit'rary Tick,
He just made the words do a Jumpity-Quick!
So scatter your stories, and let them all fly—
The moment they're finished, you've climbed to the sky!