LO, THE PRESS AGENT

By many names men call me— Press agent, publicity promoter, faker; Ofttimes the short and simple liar. Charles A. Dana told me I was a buccaneer On the high seas of journalism. Many a newspaper business manager Has charged me With selling his space Over his head. Every one loves me When I get his name into print— For this is an age of publicity And he who bloweth not his own horn The same shall not be blown. I have sired, nursed and reared Many reputations. Few men or women have I found Scornful of praise or blame In the press. The folk of the stage Live on publicity, Yet to the world they pretend to dislike it, Though wildly to me they plead for it, cry for it, Ofttimes do that for it Which must make the God Notoriety Grin at the weakness of mortals. I hold a terrible power And sometimes my own moderation Amazes me, For I can abase as well as elevate, Tear down as well as build up. I know all the ways of fair speaking And can lead my favorites To fame and golden rewards. There are a thousand channels Through which press agency can exploit Its star or its movement Never obvious but like the submarine Submersible beneath the sea Of publicity. But I know, too, of the ways That undo in Manhattan. There are bacilli of rumor That slip through the finest of filters And defy the remedial serums Of angry denial. Pin a laugh to your tale When stalking your enemy And not your exile nor your death Will stay the guffaws of merriment As the story flies Through the Wicked Forties And on to the "Road." Laughter gives the rumor strong wings. Truly the press agent, Who knows his psychology, Likewise his New York In all of its ramifications, And has a nimble wit, Can play fast and loose With the lives of many. Nevertheless he has no great reward, And most in the theatre Draw fatter returns than he. Yet is he called upon to make the show, To save the show, But never is he given credit Comparable to that which falls Upon the slightest jester or singer or dancer Who mugs, mimes, or hoofs in a hit. Yet is the press agent happy; He loves his work; It has excitement and intrigue; And to further the cause of beautiful women, To discover the wonderful girls of the theatre, And lead them in progress triumphal Till their names outface the jealous night, On Broadway, in incandescents, Is in itself a privilege. That compensates For the wisdom of the cub reporter, The amusement of the seasoned editor, Shredding the cherished story And uprooting the flourishing "plant"; Makes one forgive The ingratitude of artists arrived. They who do not love me I hope to have fear me; There is only one hell, And that is to be disregarded.