Black Beetles in Amber

Conceded by the Hangman's League to you,
The fool (his dam's acquainted with a knave)
Whose fluent pen, of his no-brain the slave,
Strews notes of introduction o'er the land
And calls it hospitality—his hand
May palsy seize ere he again consign
To me his friend, as I to Hades mine!
Pity the wretch, his faults howe'er you see,
Whom A accredits to his victim, B.
Like shuttlecock which battledores attack
(One speeds it forward, one would drive it back)
The trustful simpleton is twice unblest—
A rare good riddance, an unwelcome guest.
The glad consignor rubs his hands to think
How duty is commuted into ink;
The consignee (his hands he cannot rub—
He has the man upon them) mutters: 'Cub!'
And straightway plans to lose him at the Club.
You know, good Killer, where this dunce abides—
The secret jungle where he writes and hides—
Though no exploring foot has e'er upstirred
His human elephant's exhaustless herd.
Go, bring his blood! We'll drink it—letting fall
A due libation to the gods of Gall.
On second thought, the gods may have it all.

ONE AND ONE ARE TWO

The trumpet sounded and the dead
  Came forth from earth and ocean,
And Pickering arose and sped
  Aloft with wobbling motion.
'What makes him fly lop-sided?' cried
  A soul of the elected.
'One ear was wax,' a rogue replied,
  'And isn't resurrected.'
Below him on the pitted plain,
  By his abandoned hollow,
His hair and teeth tried all in vain
  The rest of him to follow.
Saint Peter, seeing him ascend,
  Came forward to the wicket,
And said: 'My mutilated friend,
  I'll thank you for your ticket.'
'The Call,' said Pickering, his hand
  To reach the latch extended.
Said Peter, affable and bland:
  'The free-list is suspended—
'What claim have you that's valid here?'
  That ancient vilifier
Reflected; then, with look austere,
  Replied: 'I am a liar.'
Said Peter: 'That is simple, neat
  And candid Anglo-Saxon,
But—well, come in, and take a seat
  Up there by Colonel Jackson.'

MONTAGUE LEVERSON

As some enormous violet that towers
Colossal o'er the heads of lowlier flowers—
Its giant petals royally displayed,
And casting half the landscape into shade;
Delivering its odors, like the blows
Of some strong slugger, at the public nose;
Pride of two Nations—for a single State
Would scarce suffice to sprout a plant so great;
So Leverson's humility, outgrown
The meaner virtues that he deigns to own,
To the high skies its great corolla rears,
O'ertopping all he has except his ears.

THE WOFUL TALE OF MR. PETERS

I should like, good friends, to mention the disaster which befell
Mr. William Perry Peters, of the town of Muscatel,
Whose fate is full of meaning, if correctly understood—
Admonition to the haughty, consolation to the good.
It happened in the hot snap which we recently incurred,
When 'twas warm enough to carbonize the feathers of a bird,
And men exclaimed: 'By Hunky!' who were bad enough to swear,