BISHOP JOSS.
Yes, him—the snivelling sneak—his very name
provokes me,—
Altho' my temper's milky-meek, he sours me
and he chokes me.
To see him going up and down with those meek
lips asunder,
Jest like a man about to drown, with lead to sink
him under,
His grey hair on his shoulders shed, one leg than
t'other shorter,
No end of cuteness in his head, and him—as
weak as water!