Gr-r-r——there go， my heart's abhorrence！
Water your damned flower-pots， do！
If hate killed men， Brother Lawrence，
God's blood， would not mine kill you！
What？ your myrtle-bush wants trimming？
Oh， that rose has prior claims——
Needs its leaden vase filled brimming？
Hell dry you up with its flames！
At the meal we sit together；
Salve tibi！ I must hear
Wise talk of the kind of weather，
Sort of season， time of year：
Not a plenteous cork crop： scarcely
Dare we hope oak-galls， I doubt；
What's the Latin name for "parsley"？
What's the Greek name for "swine's snout"？
Whew！ We'll have our platter burnished，
Laid with care on our own shelf！
With a fire-new spoon we're furnished，
And a goblet for ourself，
Rinsed like something sacrificial
Ere 'tis fit to touch our chaps——
Marked with L. for our initial！
（He-he！ There his lily snaps！）
Saint， forsooth！ While Brown Dolores
Squats outside the Convent bank
With Sanchicha， telling stories，
Steeping tresses in the tank，
Blue-black， lustrous， thick like horsehairs，
——Can't I see his dead eye glow，
Bright as 'twere a Barbary corsair's？
（That is， if he'd let it show！）
When he finishes refection，
Knife and fork he never lays
Cross-wise， to my recollection，
As do I， in Jesu's praise.
I the Trinity illustrate，
Drinking watered orange pulp——
In three sips the Arian frustrate；
While he drains his at one gulp！
Oh， those melons！ if he's able
We're to have a feast； so nice！
One goes to the Abbot's table，
All of us get each a slice.
How go on your flowers？ None double？
Not one fruit-sort can you spy？
Strange！——And I， too， at such trouble，
Keep them close-nipped on the sly！
There's a great text in Galatians，
Once you trip on it， entails
Twenty-nine district damnations，
One sure， if another fails；
If I trip him just a-dying，
Sure of heaven as sure can be，
Spin him round and send him flying
Off to hell， a Manichee？
Or， my scrofulous French novel
On grey paper with blunt type！
Simply glance at it， you grovel
Hand and foot in Belial's gripe；
If I double down its pages
At the woeful sixteenth print，
When he gathers his greengages，
Ope a sieve and slip it in't？
Or， there's Satan！——one might venture
Pledge one's soul to him， yet leave
Such a flaw in the indenture
As he'd miss till， past retrieve，
Blasted lay that rose-acacia
We're so proud of！ Hy， Zy， Hine……
'St， there's Vespers！ Plena gratia
Ave， Virgo！ Gr-r-r——you swine！