Black Beetles in Amber

That from you, neighbor! to whose vacant lot

Each rhyming literary knacker scourges

His cart-compelling Pegasus to trot,

As folly, fame or famine smartly urges?

Admonished by the stimulating goad,

How gaily, lo! the spavined crow-bait prances—

Its cart before it—eager to unload

The dead-dog sentiments and swill-tub fancies.

Gravely the sweating scavenger pulls out

The tail-board of his curst imagination,

Shoots all his rascal rubbish, and, no doubt,

Thanks Fortune for so good a dumping-station.

To improve your property, the vile cascade

Your thrift invites—to make a higher level.

In vain: with tons of garbage overlaid,

Your baseless bog sinks slowly to the devil.

"Rubbish may be shot here"—familiar sign!

I seem to see it in your every column.

You have your wishes, but if I had mine

'Twould to your editor mean something solemn.