(from the book, by the Candelabra's Glare by Baum)
(Writ dejectedly at early dawn.)
The rarebit is an elfish imp
That wields a deadly power,
Though frequently nonchalantly
The demon we devour.
I think I’ve figured out the way
This weird dish is created,
And if you’d try the recipe
Below ‘t is plainly stated:
You take a drove of nightmares,
Of headache quite a lot,
A cord of hard dyspepsia
And of mulligrubs a jot.
And roll and mash and bake ‘em
‘Til browned to fit the code,
Then feed it to your dearest friends
As “rarebit, a la mode”!
‘T would be palpably fictitious
Though suffering from its sting,
Should I say it’s not delicious –
Unfit to feast a king.
I can only pray devoutly,
(In addition to my litany.)
From rarebit Lord deliver me,
So I never more will get any!
“My best friends have never called me a poet, and I have been forced to admire their restraint. Nevertheless, this little book has an excuse. Unaided, I have set the types and turned the press and accomplished the binding. Such as it is, the book is “my very own”.
Another peculiar thing about the volume, which, I believe, renders it unique, the fact that there has not been a penny of expense attending the production. For my good friends, when they found I was going to make a book, insisted upon furnishing all the pictures and material, and I generously allowed them to do so. I have done the work evenings, when my business cares were over. It has
been my recreation “ lfb
(The 99 books printed were for gifts to friends. The above poem comes from a copy that was offered for sale on Ebay. Buyer and seller are unknown.)