Fads futile, and tastes meretricious.
Oh, joy, to transport to that Limbo of Fools,
Upon trial and honest conviction,
The plagues of our Parties, our Churches, our Schools,
Who ought to "retire into Fiction."
When WINDYWHAME, M.P., goes spouting about,
His flatulent madness and malice;
When SLUDGE, after years of dogmatical doubt,
Finds Faith's Wonderland worthy of Alice;
When POPINJAY airs his effeminate Art,