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.