Once on a Commission dreary sat Dunraven, worn and weary.
Hearing many a snuffling Hebrew, many a Sweater's victim poor,
Oft he nodded, nearly dozing, but, on the Commission's closing,
Schemed out a Report, supposing that by such Report he'd score.
"Tone it down," his colleagues muttered; "like a sucking-dove let's roar,
Gently purr, and nothing more."
"Be those words our sign of parting!" cried Dunraven, swift upstarting;
"Sweating's an accursed system, but if now our toil is o'er,
We leave twaddle as sole token of the swelling words we've spoken.