Spreading the word about my “Treasure Hunt” with a lord!
ME: Hey Byron, will you write a poem for me with the five golden words to promote my “Treasure Hunt”?
BYRON: You’re an orator of such set trash of phrase.
ME: Trash? Isn’t that a bit crude? I write pulp fiction, if that’s what you mean.
BYRON: A fellow word crafter. Delightful! I will dedicate in honest simple verse a song to you then.
ME: You’re too kind. (Finally someone is going to help out with my advertising. This will be so great for my site stats, hihi.)
BYRON: It is pleasant to be deemed magnanimous,
The more so in obtaining our own ends.
ME: Well, yes, I’m fawning over you because I need this publicity, but I also like you. Childe Harolde’s Pilgrimage is very enjoyable. (Hold on, I haven’t read it since college. What was it about? I hope he doesn’t ask.)
BYRON: Happy maiden of the moral North!
Where all is virtue…
ME: Not all. And not lately
BYRON: …Where juries cast up what a wife is worth
By laying whate’er sum they please on.
The lover, who must pay a handsome price
Because it is a marketable vice.
ME: I have no idea what you’re saying. There’s no price put on a wife…women’s lives are hardly worth anything to some people.
BYRON: Here, my chaste Muse, a liberty I must take.
ME: What do you mean?
BYRON: There’s no great cause to quake…
ME: Are you saying that there is a small one?
BYRON: … As I have a high sense of Aristotle and the Rules, ‘t is fit to beg his pardon when I err a bit.
ME: Oh man, can you get on with that song. I’d rather you make it a short poem.
BYRON: Man’s a phenomenon, one knows not what,
And wonderful beyond all wondrous measure.
‘t is a pity, though, in their sublime world, that
Pleasure’s a sin, and sometimes sin’s a pleasure;
Few mortals know what end they would be at,
But whether glory, power, love, or treasure…
ME: A successful bookstore for me, I hope.
BYRON:…The path is through perplexing ways.
ME: Tell me about it.
BYRON: …And when the goal is gained, we die, you know…
BYRON: What then? I do not know, no more do you.
And so, good night.
ME: Hold on. You’re leaving?
BYRON: Yes. I wish your fate may yield ye, when she chooses,
The fame you envy and the skill you need.
ME: Thanks a lot. I thought I already had skill. Hey… how about the poem?
But he’s gone.
I begin to realize that when it comes to advertising I’m probably on my own. Oh, well…