(Shut up, you blighted God, and let me speak)
I should have hove my sporting air-gun up
And blazed away—and now I let ’em go—
It’s odd how one changes;
Yes, that’s High Germany.
But still, when he was smiling like a Chinese queen,
Looking as queer (I do assure you, God)
As any Chinese queen I ever saw;
And tiddle-whiddle-whiddling about prose,
Trying to quiz a mutton-headed poetaster,