 In these days, every mother's son or daughter writes verse, which no one reads except the writer. Although, uninked, the paper would be whiter, and worth, per ream, a hair, when you have caught her. Counts of unstaunt shelly's daily water on answering dust, a thousand wood-words scribble, and twice a thousand corn-law-rimers dribble rhymid prose, unread. Himnars are fraud and slaughter, by cant called other names, alone fine buyers, who buy but read not. What a loss in paper, rones each immortal of the host of sires. What profanation of the midnight taper in expirations vile. But I write well, and wisely print. Why don't my poems sell? End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. In these days every mother's son or daughter writes verse, which no one reads except the writer. Although, uninked, the paper would be whiter, and worth, per ream, a hair, when you have caught her. Counts of unstaunt shelly's daily water on answering dust, a thousand wood-words scribble, and twice a thousand corn-law-rimers dribble rhymid prose, unread. Himnars are fraud and slaughter, by cant called other names, alone fine buyers, who buy but read not. What a loss in paper, rones each immortal of the host of sires. What profanation of the midnight taper in expirations vile. But I write well, and wisely print. Why don't my poems sell? End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. In these days every mother's son or daughter writes verse, which no one reads except the writer. Although, uninked, the paper would be whiter, and worth, per ream, a hair, when you have caught her. Counts of unstaunt shelly's daily water on answering dust, a thousand wood-words scribble, and twice a thousand corn-law-rimers dribble rhymid prose, unread. Himnars are fraud and slaughter, by cant called other names, alone fine buyers, who buy but read not. What a loss in paper, rones each immortal of the host of sires. What profanation of the midnight taper in expirations vile. But I write well, and wisely print. Why don't my poems sell? End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. In these days by Ebenezer Elliot, read for LibriVox.org by Paula Vell, Las Vegas, Nevada. In these days every mother's son or daughter writes verse, which no one reads except the writer. Although, uninked, the paper would be whiter, and worth, per ream, a hair, when you have caught her. Times of unstunned shillies daily water, unentering dust, a thousand woods-worth scribble, and twice a thousand corn-law-rimers dribble, rhymid prose, unread. Himnars are fraud and slaughter, by cant called other names, alone fine buyers, who buy but read not. What a loss in paper, rones each immortal of the host of sires. What profanation of the midnight taper in expirations vile. But I write well and wisely print. Why don't my poems sell? End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. In these days by Ebenezer Elliot, read for LibriVox.org by Leonard Wilson of Springfield, Ohio. In these days every mother's son or daughter writes verse, which no one reads except the writer, although un-inked, the paper would be whiter, and worth, per ream, a hair, when you have caught her. Hundreds of unstunned shillies daily water, unentering dust, a thousand woods-worth scribble, and twice a thousand corn-law-rimers dribble, rhymid prose, unread. And there's a fraud and slaughter, by cant called other names, alone fine buyers, who buy but read not. What a loss in paper, rones each immortal of the host of sires. What profanation of the midnight taper in expirations vile. But I write well and wisely print. Why don't my poems sell? In these days by Ebenezer Elliot, this is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org, recording by Mihayo Viduenake. In these days by Ebenezer Elliot, read for LibriVox.org by Mihayo Viduenake. In these days, every mother's son or daughter writes verse which no one reads except the writer. Although uninned, the paper would be whiter, and worth per ream a hair when you have caught her. Hundreds of unstunned shillies daily water, unentering dust, a thousand woods-worth scribble, and twice a thousand corn-lore rhymer's dribble, rhymed prose unread, hymners of fraud and slaughter, by canned-called other name alone find buyers, who buy but read not. What a loss in paper, rones each immortal of the host of sires. What profanation of the midnight taper in expirations vile. Did I write well, and why is he print, why don't my poems sell? End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. In these days by Ebenezer Elliot, read for LibriVox.org by Summer Days. In these days, every mother's son or daughter writes verse which no one reads except the writer. Although uninked, the paper would be whiter, and worth per ream a hair when you have caught her. Hundreds of unstunned shillies daily water, unentering dust, a thousand woods-worth scribble, and twice a thousand corn-lore rhymer's dribble, rhymed prose unread, hymners of fraud and slaughter, by canned-called other names alone find buyers, who buy but read not. What a loss in paper, rones each immortal of the host of sires. What profanation of the midnight taper in expirations vile. But I write well, and why is he print, why don't my poems sell? End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. In these days by Ebenezer Elliot, read for LibriVox.org by Nicholas James Bridgewater. In these days every mother's son or daughter writes verse which no one reads except the writer. Although uninked, the paper would be whiter, and worth per ream a hair when you have caught her. Hundreds of unstunned shillies daily water, unentering dust, a thousand woods-worth scribble, and twice a thousand corn-lore rhymer's dribble, rhymed prose unread, hymners of fraud and slaughter, by canned-called other names alone find buyers, who buy but read not. What a loss in paper, rones each immortal of the host of sires. What profanation of the midnight taper in expirations vile. But I write well, and why is he print, why don't my poems sell? End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. In these days by Ebenezer Elliot, read for LibriVox.org by Raven Notation. In these days every mother's son or daughter writes verse which no one reads except the writer. Although uninked, the paper would be whiter, and worth per ream a hair when you have caught her. Hundreds of unstunned shillies daily water, unentering dust, a thousand woods-worth scribble, and twice a thousand corn-lore rhymer's dribble, rhymed prose unread, hymners of fraud and slaughter, by canned-called other names alone find buyers, who buy but read not. What a loss in paper, rones each immortal of the host of sires. What profanation of the midnight taper in expirations vile. But I write well, and why is he print, why don't my poems sell? End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. In these days by Ebenezer Elliot, read for LibriVox.org by Victoria Grace of Syracuse, New York. In these days every mother's son or daughter writes verse which no one reads except the writer. Although uninked, the paper would be whiter, and worth per ream a hair when you have caught her, hundreds of unstunned shillies daily water, unentering dust, a thousand words-worths scribble, and twice a thousand corn-lore rhymer's dribble, rhymed prose unread, hymners of fraud and slaughter, by canned-called other names alone find buyers, who buy but read not. What a loss in paper, groans each immortal of the host of sires. What profanation of the midnight taper in expirations vile. But I write well, and why is he print, why don't my poems sell? End of poem. This recording is in the public domain.