Black Beetles in Amber

Well, James McMillan Shafter, you're a Judge—

At least you were when last I knew of you;

And if the people since have made you budge

I did not notice it. I've much to do

Without endeavoring to follow, through

The miserable squabbles, dust and smudge,

The fate of even the veteran contenders

Who fight with flying colors and suspenders.

Being a Judge, 'tis natural and wrong

That you should villify the public press—

Save while you are a candidate. That song

Is easy quite to sing, and I confess

It wins applause from hearers who have less

Of spiritual graces than belong

To audiences of another kidney—

Men, for example, like Sir Philip Sidney.

Newspapers, so you say, don't always treat

The Judges with respect. That may be so

And still no harm done, for I swear I'll eat

My legs and in the long hereafter go,

Snake-like, upon my belly if you'll show

All Judges are respectable and sweet.

For some of them are rogues and the world's laughter's

Directed at some others, for they're Shafters.