Preface to the Preface

Samuel Johnson was pretty witty.

Hodge was the name of his kitty.

Words were his game,

A dictionary was his fame.

This he said of Shakespeare:

Success, he has, does, and can

For he writes in species not man.

Dictionary Johnson needed not fame,

He had his own to claim.

Yet his compass was wrought,

Moral purpose and plot he sought

He found neither.

Sometimes out of place;

Time and face or force of lace

Determine truth in the fabric of the weaver.

Therefore his heart was a believer

But his mind couldn’t conceive this ridiculous,

Seemingly neurotic, and raucous disgrace.

Shakespeare was not misplaced

There was good even among his disgrace.

And Johnson, although not a firm believer,

Decided he must write a preface.

My Hero Samuel Johnson: Dedicated to James Boswell

Whan upon an aprile day,

I sat and stood, and sat some more

Pondering words, and words, and words galore.

When upon my mind those words did rise

To say to me: you have no right

you have no time.

For we have risen

beyond thee and thy comprehension

In this dire moment, when hope was forlorn, a figure rose

From pages past.

This figure had no armor, shield or sword,

but a pen he did raise.

And with that pen he defined a way.

And hope did find, with its evervescent rays,

My pondering upon that fateful day.

Good sir said I.

Dost thou have a name.

“Aye” he replied.

Samuel Johnson is mine name.