CENSOR LITERARUMSo, Parson Stebbins, you've released your chinTo say that here, and here, we press-folk ail.'Tis a great thing an editor to skinAnd hang his faulty pelt upon a nail(If over-eared, it has, at least, no tail)And, for an admonition against sin,Point out its maculations with a rod,And act, in short, the gentleman of God.'Twere needless cruelty to spoil your sportBy comment, critical or merely rude;But you, too, have, according to report,Despite your posing as a holy dude,Imperfect spiritual pulchritudeFor so severe a judge. May't please the court,We shall appeal and take our case at onceBefore that higher court, a taller dunce.Sir, what wereyouwithout the press? What spreadsThe fame of your existence, once a week,From the Pacific Mail dock to the Heads,Warning the people you're about to wreakUpon the human ear your Sunday freak?—Whereat the most betake them to their bedThough some prefer to slumber in the pewsAnd nod assent to your hypnotic views.Unhappy man! can you not still your tongueWhen (like a luckless brat afflict with worms,By cruel fleas intolerably stung,Or with a pang in its small lap) it squirms?Still must it vulgarize your feats of lung?No preaching better were, the sun beneath,If you had nothing there behind your teeth.
So, Parson Stebbins, you've released your chinTo say that here, and here, we press-folk ail.'Tis a great thing an editor to skinAnd hang his faulty pelt upon a nail(If over-eared, it has, at least, no tail)And, for an admonition against sin,Point out its maculations with a rod,And act, in short, the gentleman of God.'Twere needless cruelty to spoil your sportBy comment, critical or merely rude;But you, too, have, according to report,Despite your posing as a holy dude,Imperfect spiritual pulchritudeFor so severe a judge. May't please the court,We shall appeal and take our case at onceBefore that higher court, a taller dunce.Sir, what wereyouwithout the press? What spreadsThe fame of your existence, once a week,From the Pacific Mail dock to the Heads,Warning the people you're about to wreakUpon the human ear your Sunday freak?—Whereat the most betake them to their bedThough some prefer to slumber in the pewsAnd nod assent to your hypnotic views.Unhappy man! can you not still your tongueWhen (like a luckless brat afflict with worms,By cruel fleas intolerably stung,Or with a pang in its small lap) it squirms?Still must it vulgarize your feats of lung?No preaching better were, the sun beneath,If you had nothing there behind your teeth.