Lyman Abbott, calm and dry,
With your conscientious eye,
Can it possibly be true
He who made the Poles made you?
In the forest, on the beach,
You have pondered what to preach.
Magic nights of piercing beauty,
You have lectured us on duty.
In your admirable heart
Lives a Yearning to Impart;
In your veins an earnest flood
Of listerine instead of blood.
Lyman, Lyman, do you think
If you gambled, took to drink,
Loved a Countess, lost your soul,
You could ever be a Pole?
Mrs. P's Side of It
So Prometheus, the Titan, seeing the great need that man had of fire, risked all and set out for Olympus, and brought thence the flame.
And warmth, comfort, art and inventions spread over the world.
But as to Prometheus, he was seized by the gods, in their wrath, and chained to a rock in the Scythian wilds, by the sea. There no ear heard his cries. There he raged on alone, year by year, with his eyelids cut off, while cold-hearted vultures with great beaks like horns tore his flesh.