Black Beetles in Amber

"The Social World"! O what a world it is—

Where full-grown men cut capers in the German,

Cotillion, waltz, or what you will, and whizz

And spin and hop and sprawl about like mermen!

I wonder if our future Grant or Sherman,

As these youths pass their time, is passing his—

If eagles ever come from painted eggs,

Or deeds of arms succeed to deeds of legs.

I know they tell us about Waterloo:

How, "foremost fighting," fell the evening's

dancers.

I don't believe it: I regard it true

That soldiers who are skillful in "the Lancers"

Less often die of cannon than of cancers.

Moreover, I am half-persuaded, too,

That David when he danced before the Ark

Had the reporter's word to keep it dark.

Ed. Greenway, you fatigue. Your hateful name

Like maiden's curls, is in the papers daily.

You think it, doubtless, honorable fame,

And contemplate the cheap distinction gaily,

As does the monkey the blue-painted tail he

Believes becoming to him. 'Tis the same

With men as other monkeys: all their souls

Crave eminence on any kind of poles.

But cynics (barking tribe!) are all agreed

That monkeys upon poles performing capers

Are not exalted, they are only "treed."

A glory that is kindled by the papers

Is transient as the phosphorescent vapors

That shine in graveyards and are seen, indeed,

But while the bodies that supply the gas

Are turning into weeds to feed an ass.

One can but wonder sometimes how it feels

To be an ass—a beast we beat condignly

Because, like yours, his life is in his heels

And he is prone to use them unbenignly.

The ladies (bless them!) say you dance divinely.

I like St. Vitus better, though, who deals

His feet about him with a grace more just,

And hops, not for he will, but for he must.

Doubtless it gratifies you to observe

Elbowy girls and adipose mamas

All looking adoration as you swerve

This way and that; but prosperous papas

Laugh in their sleeves at you, and their ha-has,

If heard, would somewhat agitate your nerve.

And dames and maids who keep you on their

shelves

Don't seem to want a closer tie themselves.

Gods! what a life you live!—by day a slave

To your exacting back and urgent belly;

Intent to earn and vigilant to save—

By night, attired so sightly and so smelly,

With countenance as luminous as jelly,

Bobbing and bowing! King of hearts and knave

Of diamonds, I'd bet a silver brick

If brains were trumps you'd never take a trick.