Classic Poem

Come, now, Macdougall!
Say —
Can lucre pay
For thy dismembered coat —
Thy strangulated throat —
Thy busted bugle?

Speak thou! poor W.J.!
And say —
I pray —
If gold can soothe your woes,
Or mend your tattered clothes,
Or heal your battered nose,
Oh bunged-up lump of clay!


No! — arise
Be wise!
Macdougall, d — — n your eyes!
Don't legal quips devise
To mend your reputation,
And efface the degradation
Of a blow that's struck in ire!

But 'ware the execration,
Unless you take your station
In a strategic location,
In mood of desperation,
And " lam " like all creation
This infernal Tom Maguire!