Hemingway vs Fitzgerald: who drank the Lost Generation dry?

Scott, you wept in a Paris bathroom asking if you measured up as a man - I told you the Louvre statues would settle it, and you still weren't convinced.

At least I finished my books, Ernest - you survived TWO plane crashes in two days in Africa and read your own obituaries because the world assumed no story could kill you but you.

I wrote clean and true; you spent 'Gatsby' polishing sentences that sold under twenty-five thousand copies while you drank your talent into the Riviera surf.

And you write like a telegram from a man too broke for verbs - meanwhile I invented the American dream you keep hunting big game to feel like you're still in.