I loved her well, and I'm proud that she Wasn't indifferent, quite, to me; In fact I have sometimes gone so far (You know, mesdames, how silly men are) As to think she preferred—excuse the conceit—My legs upon which to sharpen her feet. Perhaps it shouldn't have gone for much, But I started and thrilled beneath her touch! Ah, well, that's ancient history now: The fingers of Time have touched my brow, And I hear with never a start to-day That Beauty has passed from the earth away. Gone!—her death-song (it killed her) sung. Gone!—her fiddlestrings all unstrung. Gone to the bliss of a new regime Of turkey smothered in seas of cream; Of roasted mice (a superior breed, To science unknown and the coarser need Of the living cat) cooked by the flame Of the dainty soul of an erring dame Who gave to purity all her care, Neglecting the duty of daily prayer,— Crisp, delicate mice, just touched with spice By the ghost of a breeze from Paradise; A very digestible sort of mice. Let scoffers sneer, I propose to hold That Beauty has mounted the Stair of Gold, To eat and eat, forever and aye, On a velvet rug from a golden tray. But the human spirit—that is my creed— Rots in the ground like a barren seed. That is my creed, abhorred by Man But approved by Cat since time began. Till Death shall kick at me, thundering 'Scat!' I shall hold to that, I shall hold to that.
THE STATESMEN.
How blest the land that counts among Her sons so many good and wise, To execute great feats of tongue When troubles rise. Behold them mounting every stump Our liberty by speech to guard. Observe their courage:—see them jump And come down hard! 'Walk up, walk up!' each cries aloud, 'And learn from me what you must do To turn aside the thunder cloud, The earthquake too. 'Beware the wiles of yonder quack Who stuffs the ears of all that pass. I—I alone can show that black Is white as grass.' They shout through all the day and break The silence of the night as well. They'd make—I wish they'd go and make— Of Heaven a Hell. A advocates free silver, B Free trade and C free banking laws. Free board, clothes, lodging would from me Win warm applause. Lo, D lifts up his voice: 'You see The single tax on land would fall On all alike.' More evenly No tax at all. 'With paper money' bellows E 'We'll all be rich as lords.' No doubt— And richest of the lot will be The chap without. As many 'cures' as addle wits Who know not what the ailment is! Meanwhile the patient foams and spits Like a gin fizz. Alas, poor Body Politic, Your fate is all too clearly read: To be not altogether quick, Nor very dead. You take your exercise in squirms, Your rest in fainting fits between. 'T is plain that your disorder's worms— Worms fat and lean. Worm Capital, Worm Labor dwell Within your maw and muscle's scope. Their quarrels make your life a Hell, Your death a hope. God send you find not such an end To ills however sharp and huge! God send you convalesce! God send You vermifuge.
