It is pleasant to think, as I’m
watching my ink
A-drying along my paper,
That a monument fine will surely be mine
When death has extinguished
my taper.
From each rhyming scribe of the journalist
tribe
Purged clean of all sentiments
narrow,
A pebble will mark his respect for the
stark
Stiff body that’s under
the barrow.
By fellow-bards thrown, thus stone upon
stone
Will make my celebrity deathless.
O, I wish I could think, as I gaze at
my ink,
They’d wait till my
carcass is breathless.
MAD.
O ye who push and fight
To hear a wanton sing—
Who utter the delight
That has the bogus ring,—
O men mature in years,
In understanding young,
The membranes of whose ears
She tickles with her tongue,—
O wives and daughters sweet,
Who call it love of art
To kiss a woman’s feet
That crush a woman’s
heart,—
O prudent dams and sires,
Your docile young who bring
To see how man admires
A sinner if she sing,—
O husbands who impart
To each assenting spouse
The lesson that shall start
The buds upon your brows,—
All whose applauding hands
Assist to rear the fame
That throws o’er all the lands
The shadow of its shame,—
Go drag her car!—the mud
Through which its axle rolls
Is partly human blood
And partly human souls.
Mad, mad!—your senses whirl
Like devils dancing free,
Because a strolling girl
Can hold the note high C.
For this the avenging rod
Of Heaven ye dare defy,
And tear the law that God
Thundered from Sinai!
HOSPITALITY.
Why ask me, Gastrogogue, to dine
(Unless to praise your rascal wine)
Yet never ask some luckless sinner
Who needs, as I do not, a dinner?
