Fear for Futurity, Filcher fictitious!
Fame forced from Folly, finding fawners fled,
Feeds final Failure—failure fungus-fed.
By Captain Villiam Brown, Eskevire.
"Well, my juvenile Union-blue," says Villiam, smiling like a successful cherubim, "what do you think of that piece of American intelleck?"
"I think," says I, "that it is worthy of an F. F. V."
What followed, my boy, is none of your business, though a sentry near by subsequently observed that he heard the sound of soft, mellifluous gurgles come from the interior of the tent.
Poetry, my boy, is man's best gift; and that, I suppose, is the reason why it is so popular in young women's boarding-schools.
Yours, in particular metre,
Orpheus C. Kerr.