Ira P. Rankin, you’ve a nasal name—­
I’ll sound it through “the speaking-trump of fame,”
And wondering nations, hearing from afar
The brazen twang of its resounding jar,
Shall say:  “These bards are an uncommon class—­
They blow their noses with a tube of brass!”
Rankin! ye gods! if Influenza pick
Our names at christening, and such names stick,
Let’s all be born when summer suns withstand
Her prevalence and chase her from the land,
And healing breezes generously help
To shield from death each ailing human whelp! 
“What’s in a name?” There’s much at least in yours
That the pained ear unwillingly endures,
And much to make the suffering soul, I fear,
Envy the lesser anguish of the ear.

So you object to Cytherea!  Do,
The picture was not painted, sir, for you!
Your mind to gratify and taste address,
The masking dove had been a dove the less. 
Provincial censor! all untaught in art,
With mind indecent and indecent heart,
Do you not know—­nay, why should I explain? 
Instruction, argument alike were vain—­
I’ll show you reasons when you show me brain.

THE SPIRIT OF A SPONGE

I dreamed one night that Stephen Massett died,
And for admission up at Heaven applied. 
“Who are you?” asked St. Peter.  Massett said: 
“Jeems Pipes, of Pipesville.”  Peter bowed his head,
Opened the gates and said:  “I’m glad to know you,
And wish we’d something better, sir, to show you.” 
“Don’t mention it,” said Stephen, looking bland,
And was about to enter, hat in hand,
When from a cloud below such fumes arose
As tickled tenderly his conscious nose. 
He paused, replaced his hat upon his head,
Turned back and to the saintly warden said,
O’er his already sprouting wings:  “I swear
I smell some broiling going on down there!”
So Massett’s paunch, attracted by the smell,
Followed his nose and found a place in Hell.

ORNITHANTHROPOS

“Let John P. Irish rise!” the edict rang
As when Creation into being sprang! 
Nature, not clearly understanding, tried
To make a bird that on the air could ride. 
But naught could baffle the creative plan—­
Despite her efforts ’twas almost a man. 
Yet he had risen—­to the bird a twin—­
Had she but fixed a wing upon his chin.

TO E.S.  SALOMON

    Who in a Memorial Day oration protested bitterly against
    decorating the graves of Confederate dead.

What!  Salomon! such words from you,
  Who call yourself a soldier?  Well,
  The Southern brother where he fell
Slept all your base oration through.

Alike to him—­he cannot know
  Your praise or blame:  as little harm
  Your tongue can do him as your arm
A quarter-century ago.