Written by
Herbert Harraden - 1902
 My literary qualities are very, very great
I'm not a novel writer, but the plots I perpetrate
I have a scale of prices and of couse it's understood
The charge is low for what is bad, and high for what is good.

My lowest is a pound, for which I give you at the most
One stolen Will they never find, one murder and one ghost
For twice that sum, two stolen Wills, both found again, remark
Two ghosts, one murder when it's light and one that's in the dark.

For three pound three I open with the past time of Ping Pong
At which a Vicar's daughter and a Curate go it strong
The Vicar and the Vicar's wife look on with inward glee
The Curate (who has private means) is asked to stop to tea.

The Vicar's daughter and the Curate often take a walk
And here's the chance for chapters full of wishy-washy talk
Their marriage ought to form the closing phrases of the book
But, no, the Curate marries - a suprise - the Vicar's cook.

For five pound five (It's worth much more) I give a missing heir
Of whose existence only one (the villain) is aware
The villain (who's a lawyer) wants the hand and heart to win
Of the missing heir's tenth cousin who's of course the next of kin

He pleads his suit, she spurns his love. He threatens. She defies.
He drags her to a deep dark pool that in the forest lies
She shrieks for help. The missing heir a willow tree descends
And you all know the way this kind of story always ends.

For eight pounds eight I let you have a gang of gipsies bold
Who carry off a female babe who wears a cross of gold
Years pass. Inside St James Hall there sits a gipsy Queen
So sadly gazing on the man who holds the tamborine

She listens spellbound when he plays, what means this strange delight?
He sees she wears a cross of gold that gleams and glitters bright
Regardless of the burnt cork marks he leaves upon her face
The father clasps his long lost daughter within his black embrace.

For ten pound ten, my scene amidst the highest life I place
My hero is a Duke of every virtue, every grace
Although adored by six proud maids (all daughters of an Earl)
His heart he has bestowed upon a front-row ballet girl

One evening at the Pantomime her dress is set on fire
Who gave the bribe to do the deed it's needless to enquire
Before his eyes, upon the stage, a roasted heap she falls
And then a madman strangles six proud ladies in the stalls. 
The end