Classic Poem

Tuck, thou graceless sinner!—
Not till thou'st done thy dinner,—
But having done it, then go
And pass th' abode of Bengo!—

'Tis the terrible stench of slain horses decaying,
On whose carcases myriads of blue flies are preying
The little boys run with their noses clutch'd tightly.
Your Robin goes groaning and retching unsightly;
Yawns whitely;
Reels, and is haunted by whinnyings and neighing.

The stoutest man 'twould flummox:
It sounds the gong in our stomachs.
To Hades, say, shall men go
Because of Tuck and Bengo?

‘Levius fit patentia
Quidquid corrigere est nefas—’