Classic Poem

M'C ORKLE has a long, white, pitted nose
Which somehow seems the index of his soul;
He talks down it like this: " Man's final goal
Is higher than materialists suppose! "
Himself, he hints, is ever in the throes
Of some grim struggle for his Self's control.
M'Corkle lies. He never fought. Speech is his r├┤le.
He's putty, and his holiness all gloze.

And when M'Corkle dies his flabby ghost,
By that uncertain, pale proboscis led,
Will maunder feebly on to Satan's House;
And when it melts, his diabolic host
(Disliking insects mongst his nobler dead)
Will send its gist back here to be a louse.