O Morris, your lyre is not up-to-date—quite.
You knew not how coarse Boanerges can bawl,
Saw not on the turf filthy vagrants asprawl.
In Liberty's name what strange license is shown
To the scoundrels who swear, and the zealots who groan;
On turf that is tender, 'midst leaves that are green,
The sights are repulsive, the sounds are obscene.
Yes, Morris, that's what we now make of our Park;
And as to the deeds that go on after dark,
They would be far too gross for your liberal Muse,