Though sad be his lot and unhappy his dole,
But just count his strange international morals
A “circumstance over which he’s no control.”
Oh, blame not the people in Salt Lake its city,
Who’re sending out parties to proselytize;
They’ve suffered from wives, and they think it’s a pity
That others should not have to suffer likewise;
And blame not the Bard if his verses are prosy,
And move with a steadily slumberous roll,
The fact that he makes all the universe dozy