"What," I cried, "was ARTHUR, then, or RANDOLPH, in those days of yore?"
Quoth the bird, "Obstructive Bore."
"Prophet!" said I, "of things evil, prophet callous, cold, uncivil,
By your favourite 'Tu quoque' how can you expect to score?
Though your cheek may be undaunted, little memory is wanted,
And your conscience must be haunted by bad memories of yore,
When you were—ah! well, what were you? Tell me frankly, I implore!"
Quoth the bird, "Obstructive Bore."
"Prophet," said I, "of all evil! that we're going to the devil
All along of that 'Obstruction'—which of old you did adore.