My dear Prince, ought at least to be clean;
Not the hands of a doomed Corporation,
Fouled with all that is venal and mean:
There's the smut of the poor man's coals there,
Whereof tithe they've unrighteously taken;
There's the flour of the poor man's rolls there,
And the grease of the poor man's bacon.
Then silence your civic applauders,
Lest better men cease from applause
He who tribute accepts of marauders,