Shapes of Clay

Newman, in you two parasites combine:

As tapeworm and as graveworm too you shine.

When on the virtues of the quick you've dwelt,

The pride of residence was all you felt

(What vain vulgarian the wish ne'er knew

To paint his lodging a flamboyant hue?)

And when the praises of the dead you've sung,

'Twas appetite, not truth, inspired your tongue;

As ill-bred men when warming to their wine

Boast of its merit though it be but brine.

Nor gratitude incites your song, nor should—

Even charity would shun you if she could.

You share, 'tis true, the rich man's daily dole,

But what you get you take by way of toll.

Vain to resist you—vermifuge alone

Has power to push you from your robber throne.

When to escape you he's compelled to die

Hey! presto!—in the twinkling of an eye

You vanish as a tapeworm, reappear

As graveworm and resume your curst career.

As host no more, to satisfy your need

He serves as dinner your unaltered greed.

O thrifty sycophant of wealth and fame,

Son of servility and priest of shame,

While naught your mad ambition can abate

To lick the spittle of the rich and great;

While still like smoke your eulogies arise

To soot your heroes and inflame our eyes;

While still with holy oil, like that which ran

Down Aaron's beard, you smear each famous man,

I cannot choose but think it very odd

It ne'er occurs to you to fawn on God.