A poem from F.P.A., published in “The New York World” newspaper.

 

Homer and Milton were blind;

Johnson was somewhat sclerotic;

Thomas Carlyle had abidance of bile;

De Quincey was supernarcotic.

Poe was addicted to drink;

Burns was a bibulous guy;

Gibbon and Scott were too cold or too hot,

And Luther had pressure too high.

Nietzsche had headaches a lot;

Keats had a kidney attack;

So for my art there is hope in my heart;

I’ve got a pain in my back.

 

 

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