And she moves to and fro with the speed of the wind.
She resembles the men who (’tis fabled)
Tumble into the Packingtown vats,
Who are boiled there, and bottled, and labelled
For the tables of true democrats:
Pickled souls who are canned for the public to buy,
And (like her) have a finger in every pie!
With a step that is silent and stealthy,
Or an earsplitting clamor and noise,
She disturbs the repose of the wealthy,