One of the idlers, softly bred,
From whom the hands of David itch
To pluck their plumage, quick or dead;
For then, a super-man, I'd scorn to grudge it—
This super-tax on my estate,
But like a bird contribute to his Budget
The paltry two-and-eight.
Alas, not being this nor that,
But just a middling type of man,
Neither a bloated plutocrat