Painted little singer of a painted song, Painted little butterfly of a painted day, The false blooms in your tresses, the spangles on your dresses, The cold of your caresses, I'll tell you what they say-- "The glass is at my lips, but the wine is far away, The music's in my throat, but my soul no song confesses, The laughter's on my tongue, but my heart is clay." Scarlet little dreamer of a frozen dream, Whirling bit of tinsel on the troubled spray, 'Tis not your hair's dead roses (your sunless, scentless roses) 'Tis not your sham sad poses That tell your hollow day-- The glass is at _my_ lips, but the wine is far away, The music's in _my_ throat, but my soul no song discloses, The laughter's on _my_ tongue, but my heart is clay. IN THE THEATRE Weep not, fair lady, for the false, The fickle love's rememberance, What though another claim the waltz-- The curtain soon will close the dance. Grieve not, pale lover, for the sweet, Wild moment of thy vanished bliss; The longest scene as Time is fleet-- The curtain soon will close the kiss. And thou, too vain, too flattered mime, Drink deep the pleasures of thy day, No ruin is too mean for Time-- The curtain soon will close the play. WALTER J. KINGSLEY 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.