Whither's fled that brilliant sharpness which thy razors had of yore,
Ere thou quittedst Leadenhall Street, quittedst it with many a qualm—
Ere thou soughtest rustic Tiptree, Tiptree and its model farm?
Many a morning, by the mirror, did I pass thee o'er my beard,
And my chin grew smooth beneath thee, of its hairy harvest cleared;
Many an evening have I drawn thee 'cross the throats of wretched Jews,
When they, trembling, showed their purses, stuffed for safety in their shoes.
But, like mine, thy day is over—thou art blunt and I'm disgraced!
Curses on thy maker's projects, curses on his 'magic paste.'"
From Mirth and Metre.