And now, O Sphyntic renegade, what are you at
With all the Rurals in and out of place?
Where will you leave the boobies in the lurch—
Have you resolved to double D—— the Church?
You’ve dished the Whigs before; we now would sing.
What is the pie that you’re so busy making?
A dainty dish to set before the Thing—
Or aught that its digestion will be shaking?—
Or is it Discord’s apple that you bring?
Or will you set the good old Tories quaking,