And Mr. Palace! It is nearly seven;
My head’s a buzz, my soul is clammed and cloyed,
My stomach’s sick and all myself’s annoyed
Nor any breath of truth such lees to leaven.
No question, issue, principle, or right;
No wit, no argument, nor no disdain:
No hearty quarrel: morning, noon, and night
The old, dead, vulgar fossil drags its train;
The while three journalists and twenty Jews
Do with the country anything they choose.”