I've searched in every likely place
⁠Where he most oft is seen,
Said I, but find of him no trace:
⁠What may this portent mean?

Every old bookshop hereabout
⁠In search of him I've entered,
For that is where (without a doubt)
⁠His thoughts are chiefly centred.

To concert hall and theatre
⁠I've also gone—but mainly—
Although 'tis there, his friends aver,
⁠He spends his leisure mainly.

Brown, Jones, and Robinson all say
⁠That they nowhere have seen him,
Men of good faith and honour they,
⁠Who wouldn't lie to screen him.

He'd no misfortunes to lament,
⁠Nor ways nor means was tasked for
If cash he'd wanted I'd have lent
⁠Whatever sum he asked for.

And still the more for light I sought
⁠The mystery seemed to thicken,
Till suddenly a brilliant thought
⁠Did in my cranium quicken:

He by some magical device
⁠As I was masquerading,
And by this shabby artifice
⁠On my good name was trading.