Shapes of Clay

  You, too, display maculate molars.
      'I dines upon salts.'
  Strange diet!—intestinal pain it
    Is commonly given to nip.
  And how can you ever obtain it?
      'I follers the ship.'

POLITICAL ECONOMY.

  'I beg you to note,' said a Man to a Goose,
  As he plucked from her bosom the plumage all loose,
  'That pillows and cushions of feathers and beds
  As warm as maids' hearts and as soft as their heads,
  Increase of life's comforts the general sum—
  Which raises the standard of living.' 'Come, come,'
  The Goose said, impatiently, 'tell me or cease,
  How that is of any advantage to geese.'
  'What, what!' said the man—'you are very obtuse!
  Consumption no profit to those who produce?
  No good to accrue to Supply from a grand
  Progressive expansion, all round, of Demand?
  Luxurious habits no benefit bring
  To those who purvey the luxurious thing?
  Consider, I pray you, my friend, how the growth
  Of luxury promises—' 'Promises,' quoth
  The sufferer, 'what?—to what course is it pledged
  To pay me for being so often defledged?'
  'Accustomed'—this notion the plucker expressed
  As he ripped out a handful of down from her breast—
  'To one kind of luxury, people soon yearn
  For others and ever for others in turn;
  And the man who to-night on your feathers will rest,
  His mutton or bacon or beef to digest,
  His hunger to-morrow will wish to assuage
  By dining on goose with a dressing of sage.'

VANISHED AT COCK-CROW.

  'I've found the secret of your charm,' I said,
    Expounding with complacency my guess.
  Alas! the charm, even as I named it, fled,
    For all its secret was unconsciousness.

THE UNPARDONABLE SIN.

  I reckon that ye never knew,
  That dandy slugger, Tom Carew,
  He had a touch as light an' free
  As that of any honey-bee;
  But where it lit there wasn't much
  To jestify another touch.
  O, what a Sunday-school it was
  To watch him puttin' up his paws
  An' roominate upon their heft—
  Particular his holy left!
  Tom was my style—that's all I say;
  Some others may be equal gay.
  What's come of him? Dunno, I'm sure—
  He's dead—which make his fate obscure.
  I only started in to clear
  One vital p'int in his career,
  Which is to say—afore he died
  He soiled his erming mighty snide.
  Ye see he took to politics
  And learnt them statesmen-fellers' tricks;
  Pulled wires, wore stovepipe hats, used scent,
  Just like he was the President;
  Went to the Legislator; spoke
  Right out agin the British yoke—
  But that was right. He let his hair
  Grow long to qualify for Mayor,
  An' once or twice he poked his snoot
  In Congress like a low galoot!
  It had to come—no gent can hope
  To wrastle God agin the rope.
  Tom went from bad to wuss. Being dead,
  I s'pose it oughtn't to be said,
  For sech inikities as flow
  From politics ain't fit to know;
  But, if you think it's actin' white
  To tell it—Thomas throwed a fight!