Black Beetles in Amber

    Persuade and astonish
The capitalist and—
FITCH (letting go):
Scat! (Exit Dead Cat.)

PICKERING:

Huzza! good Deacon, well and truly flung!
Pat Stanford it has grassed, and Mike de Young.
Mike drives a dump-cart for the villains, though
'Twere fitter that he pull it. Well, we owe
The traitor one for leaving us!—some day
We'll get, if not his place, his cart away.
Meantime fling missiles—any kind will do.
                                (Enter Antique Egg.)
Ha! we can give them an ovation, too!

ANTIQUE EGG:

    In the valley of the Nile,
    Where the Holy Crocodile
    Of immeasurable smile
    Blossoms like the early rose,
    And the Sacred Onion grows—
    When the Pyramids were new
    And the Sphinx possessed a nose,
    By a storkess I was laid
    In the cool papyrus shade,
    Where the rushes later grew,
    That concealed the little Jew,
          Baby Mose.
    Straining very hard to hatch,
    I disrupted there my yolk;
    And I felt my yellow streaming
          Through my white;
    And the dream that I was dreaming
    Of posterity was broke
          In a night.
    Then from the papyrus-patch
    By the rising waters rolled,
    Passing many a temple old,
    I proceeded to the sea.
    Memnon sang, one morn, to me,
    And I heard Cambyses sass
    The tomb of Ozymandias!

FITCH:

O, venerablest orb of all the earth,
God rest the lady fowl that gave thee birth!
Fit missile for the vilest hand to throw—
I freely tender thee mine own. Although
As a bad egg I am myself no slouch,
Thy riper years thy ranker worth avouch.
Now, Pickering, please expose your eye and say
If—whoop!—
                                        (Exit egg.)
             I've got the range.
PICKERING:
                                 Hooray! hooray!
A grand good shot, and Teddy Colton's down:
It burst in thunderbolts upon his crown!
Larry O'Crocker drops his pick and flies,
And deafening odors scream along the skies!
Pelt 'em some more.

FITCH:

There's nothing left but tar— wish I were a Yahoo.

PICKERING:

                   Well, you are.
But keep the tar. How well I recollect,
When Mike was in with us—proud, strong, erect—
Mens conscia recti—flinging mud, he stood,
Austerely brave, incomparably good,
Ere yet for filthy lucre he began
To drive a cart as Stanford's hired man,
That pitch-pot bearing in his hand, Old Nick
Appeared and tarred us all with the same stick.
                           (Enter Old Nick).
I hope he won't return and use his arts
To make us part with our immortal parts.

OLD NICK: