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.