Each sinking sun sets some new Noyes a-burning,
Each rising moon reveals fresh hordes of Binyons;
Who batten fat on unsuspecting editors,
And—unlike you—contrive to pay their creditors.
“Poet, forsooth! You agricultural brute!
Have you no soul above the weight of porkers?
Was it for this I hearkened to your suit,
Gave you my metres and my rhymes—some, corkers?
Up, Gilbert! rummage out your rusty lute:
Polish it blacker than your black Minorcas: