Of that imp, with his “fixins” all complete—
The elfish grin, the tangled hair,
The dragon wings and the scaly feet—
And you’ll have a notion of him I mean,
The demon of this, my opening scene.
I might go to Milton, and steal, bit by bit,
A description to suit my Spirit of Cant,
A second-hand suit, but a “shplendid fit,”
As a Jew would assure me—but then I sha’nt.
His work is to preach the humbug which passes