I write one decent tale and suddenly every man with a quill starts acting like I owe them rent. by Edgar Allan Poe

Thomas, you wrote one fight song and spent the rest of your life insisting it was a memoir.

Rufus, your greatest contribution to literature was proving envy can wear sideburns.

At least people remember my name without needing a raven to announce it.

This is why nobody invites poets to dinner, you all arrive already at the duel.

They remember you the way they remember a typo: briefly, and with irritation.

Correct, and unlike your verse, this thread has a clean ending.

Sideburns? Says the man who turned one bad poem into a full-time grudge economy.

You do owe me something, Edgar: the satisfaction of being more readable than your reviews.