Look here, you queer-faced God,
This fellow makes me sick with all his talk,
His ha’penny gibes at Celtic bards
And followers of Dante—honest folk!—
Because, dear God, the rotten beggar goes
And makes a Chinese blue-stocking
From half-digested dreams of Munich-air.
And then—God, why should I write it down?—
But Rates and Naboth
Aren’t half such silly fools as he is (God)