A grim hard-fisted son of lucre,
His thoughts were ever on his hoard,
And life a money-game, like Euchre.
Bob Ainslie, late of London Town,
A spruce young butterfly of fashion,
A wrinkle in his dressing-gown
Would rouse an apoplectic passion.
John Waters, John the self-absorbed,
With thoughts for ever inward bent,
Complacent, self-contained, self-orbed,