DEAD MEN'S DUST. You don't buy poetry. (Neither do I.) Why? You cannot afford it? Bosh! you spend Editions de luxe on a thirsty friend. You can buy any one of the poetry bunch For the price you pay for a business lunch. Don't you suppose that a hungry head, Like an empty stomach, ought to be fed? Looking into myself, I find this true, So I hardly can figure it false in you.