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I've searched in every likely place Where he most oft is seen, Said I, but find of him no trace: What may this portent mean?
Every old bookshop hereabout In search of him I've entered, For that is where (without a doubt) His thoughts are chiefly centred.
To concert hall and theatre I've also gone—but vainly— Although 'tis there, his friends aver, He spends his leisure mainly.
Brown, Jones, and Robinson all say That they nowhere have seen him, Men of good faith and honour they, Who wouldn't lie to screen him.
He'd no misfortunes to lament, Nor ways nor means was tasked for: If cash he'd wanted I'd have lent Whatever sum he asked for.
And still the more for light I sought The mystery seemed to thicken, Till suddenly a brilliant thought Did in my cranium quicken:
He by some magical device As I was masquerading, And by this shabby artifice On my good name was trading.

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