Black Beetles in Amber

Dear Bruner, once we had a little talk

(That is to say, 'twas I did all the talking)

About the manner of your moral walk:

How devious the trail you made in stalking,

On level ground, your law-protected game—

"Another's Dollar" is, I think, its name.

Your crooked course more recently is not

So blamable; for, truly, you have stumbled

On evil days; and 'tis your luckless lot

To traverse spaces (with a spirit humbled,

Contrite, dejected and divinely sad)

Where, 'tis confessed, the walking's rather bad.

Jordan, the song says, is a road (I thought

It was a river) that is hard to travel;

And Dublin, if you'd find it, must be sought

Along a highway with more rocks than gravel.

In difficulty neither can compete

With that wherein you navigate your feet.

As once George Gorham said of Pixley, so

I say of you: "The prison yawns before you,

The turnkey stalks behind!" Now will you go?

Or lag, and let that functionary floor you?

To change the metaphor—you seem to be

Between Judge Wallace and the deep, deep sea!