Since I alone can’t stop your race,
I’ll fling my venom in your face.
From Monday morn till Sabbath night,
At evening’s shades and morning’s light,
The politician’s voice I hear
Paining mine oft disgusted ear.
“Hurrah for Tip!” cries one with glee;
“From Martin’s rule deliver me!”
“Down with the banks!” a Demo cries;
And “Crush the wretch!” a third replies.