To every “ed” who’s stretched in mind
Who’s had to fly outside the box,
Who’s bit a tongue in speaking kind
Of words unorthodox
‘Tis torture in that stretch;
Machines ne'er did so much.
Those dread devices with the cranks
Can only stretch by touch
‘Tis mind o'er matter, thoughts to scatter
On raging desert wind.
O, ye, Eds, come chase our storms
Until our stories end!
We'd write to spite and write to please
And write to make ye think,
And giggle, we, as we’d sit ye
Nigh insantity's brink.
‘Tis bitter sweet that stretch ye'd meet
On verbose prose we’d write,
And on we’d type into the night
to lend ye eds a fright.
But dearest Eds, to all of you,
We’d fret not of your stretch;
The tenebrous mind can take the pain
That eds so often catch.