Winged pirate with the poisoned dagger!
Devourer of the jampot's hoard,
And quite incorrigible ragger
Of every British breakfast board,
Till blind with surfeit to your doom you stagger,
Drunk as a lord;
Till, trapped amid the heady spices,
Snared by the treason of your taste,
Foreseeing not the hand that slices
(Be cautious, woman, not with haste!)--
Mary, who's always bold at such a crisis,
Severs your waist;
Wasp (to be brief), my dear good fellow--
A pestilential bore to some
Who mark you round their plates grow mellow,
But I am glad to hear you hum--
Which is your favourite brand, old boy, the yellow
Or greengage plum?
'Ware of your appetite for toping
I do not shriek nor tremble if
I find you round my foodstuffs sloping,
But, like a man, at danger sniff,
Watching my hour, well-armed and always hoping
To have you stiff.
Nay, what is more, I praise your pounces,
I contemplate with joy your nerve;
At every boom my bosom bounces,
It almost pains me when you swerve
Down to your last long sleep in 16 oz.
Of pure conserve.
For this I know, what time you smother
Remembrance in that final bout,
The sun's your sire, the earth's your mother,
You bring the days of halcyon drought;
Therefore I weep for you the while, my brother,
I wipe you out.
E. G. V. KNOX
July 20, 1910.