REVENGE.
(Or, a Hint to a House-agent after coming away from his Office.)
Your voice was pleasing and your face was fat;
With soap ad libitum you sought to dabble us;
But when I told you we must leave the flat
Did I not notice; underneath the spat,
The bifurcated boot that marks Diabolus?
I know that in a brief while you'll have found
The house I wanted (sic), superbly roomy,
With a fine view and every comfort crowned,
A short three minutes from the Underground;
Also I know that you are safe to "do" me.
There will be something wrong; but you shall fill
My ears with praises specious and irrelevant
Of this and that; and you shall have your will,
And heave a deep sigh when I've paid my bill,
Having got off at last some rare white elephant.
And when things happen to "The Yews" or "Planes"
Left by the Joneses like a haunt of lazars;
When the roof falls, or in the winter rains
The dining-room breaks out in sudden blains,
And every feast we have recalls BELSHAZZAR's;
You shall be smiling. But you have not guessed
One thing, for all your wisdom, child of Lucifer:
You did not know I was a bard, whose breast
Could boil with bitter language when oppressed
Like a bargee's; if anything, abusiver.
This is the high reward of sacred song;
The minstrels' voices are like falling honey
When the gods please them, but when things go wrong
They speak their mind out straight, and speak it strong,
Especially on points concerned with money.
So, if you "do me down," I have my lyre,
And I shall trumpet (at the normal Press wage)
Such things about that house, and with such fire,
That all men ever after shall conspire
To shun the said demesne and curse that messuage.
And spiders on the broken panes shall sit,
And the grey rats shall scuttle in the basement,
Until the Borough Council purchase it
And cleanse and decorate, and lastly fit
A fair blue plaque above the study casement,
Saying, "Here lived a while and wove his spell,
Eusebius Binks the bard, the unforgotten;
The house is mentioned in his 'Lines to Hell,'
Also the agents, Messrs. Azazel,
And the then drains which, so he sang, were rotten."
EVOE.
The Daily Telegraph says of the Portsmouth Corporation telephone system:—
"At present there are 1,899 subscribers and 2,528 distinct telephones."
Why doesn't the Post Office experiment with this new sort of telephone.
"Yet it is necessary to state emphatically, although no representative
of a daily newspaper seems to have been under this impression, that not
for twenty years have I been so bored."
C.K.S. in "The Sphere," on the 'Edwin Drood' trial.
But how are the poor reporters to know so much about C.K.S. as that?
