And Ung grew exceeding abusive, and proudly "uplifted his horn,"
With an Oscar Wildeish swagger, with a more than Whistlerian scorn.
He kicked with the wrath of a Kipling at "the dull-brained bourgeois lot,"
(Though he put it in different lingo, for this Billingsgate then was not.)
But the prehistoric for "Philistine!" fell from his scorn-curled lips,
And he lashed the non-artistic with words which would cut like whips.
And the non-artistic tribesmen they cried "he is right, this Ung,
Though we doubt if the sabre-tooth tiger has got such a rasping tongue:
"But there's truth in his 'Art for Art's Sake,' and Art for him shall suffice."
So they shut him up, with his bones and his tools, in a cave of ice.