To a person like me, not a flush millionaire
Who must "realise" scrip,—and the canker of care.
It would seem, we could e'er so conveniently spare
From a world too competitive, blarneyed with blare,
Both the Yankee of Wall-Street, his London confrère,
And all criers of "Lost!" when no losses are there;
All the wreckers, whose lair is secure past compare,
All who batten on bones with a maw debonair,
And the carcase of Poverty torture and tear
With historical fraud, and benevolent glare.