Black Beetles in Amber

Who told Creed Haymond he was witty?—who

Had nothing better in this world to do?

Could no greased pig's appeal to his embrace

Kindle his ardor for the friendly chase?

Did no dead dog upon a vacant lot,

Bloated and bald, or curdled in a clot,

Stir his compassion and inspire his arms

To hide from human eyes its faded charms?

If not to works of piety inclined,

Then recreation might have claimed his mind.

The harmless game that shows the feline greed

To cinch the shorts and make the market bleed[A]

Is better sport than victimizing Creed;

And a far livelier satisfaction comes

Of knowing Simon, autocrat of thumbs.[B]

If neither worthy work nor play command

This gentleman of leisure's heart and hand,

Then Mammon might his idle spirit lift

By hope of profit to some deed of thrift.

Is there no cheese to pare, no flint to skin,

No tin to mend, no glass to be put in,

No housewife worthy of a morning visit,

Her rags and sacks and bottles to solicit?

Lo! the blind sow's precarious pursuit

Of the aspiring oak's familiar fruit!—

'Twould more advantage any man to steal

This easy victim's undefended meal

Than tell Creed Haymond he has wit, and so

Expose the state to his narcotic flow!

[Footnote A: "Pussy Wants a Corner."]

[Footnote B: "Simon Says Thumbs Up."]