We shall always retort with a sting when we're stung,
With the bees in our bonnet, the D's on our tongue.
And the words that are honeyed shall fade like a myth,
When an ATKINSON stands in the shoes of a SMITH.
GENUS IRRITABILE.
First Bard. "SEEN MY SONNETS IN THE PACIFIC WEEKLY?"
Second Bard. "YES."
First Bard. "LIKE THEM?"