Ghoul
    Until the next Quinquennial Valuation. 
  And then—­well, Lord knows what may happen then,
    Unless—­unless—­and that is most improbable—­
  Ratepayers rise together—­show they’re men,
    And not mere sheep gregarious, warm-fleeced, robbable. 
  Meanwhile the Vestry Vultures gorge their fill,
    And I am warned—­by friends—­“Don’t put their backs up!”
  Their backs!  And we sing “Rule Britannia” still!! 
    Will no one chaw these fine official Jacks up?

* * * * *

THE KREUTZER SONATA.

      One Pozdnisheff by name
      Played the matrimonial game;
      Pleased by a little curl,
      Which round his heart did twirl,
      And taken by a jersey
      (Exported from the Mersey);
      He felt, poor man, half-witted
      When he saw how well it fitted!

  The mother, with her jersey-clad young daughter,
  Asked the lover to a party on the water. 
      Soft things he now could say
      To the maiden all the way,
  Till she caught him—­who imagined he had caught her!

    Now there came a young musician, Troukachevsky,
    Who, at Petersburg, resided on the Nevsky;
    And to play with him the flighty wife was fated
    In the famed duet to KREUTZEE dedicated.

    The husband who perceived things were not right,
    Home suddenly returned at dead of night. 
      His boots he’d taken off;
      He was careful not to cough;
      And his plans so well were woven,
      That they still performed Beethoven. 
      But, neither being deaf,
      They at last heard Pozdnisheff. 
      Poor wife!  He so affrights her,
      That she plays no more the Kreutzer.

    If on each foot he’d had a slipper
      To Troukachevsky (who was saved)
      The husband would have p’rhaps behaved
    Much in the style of Jack the Ripper. 
    He put to flight the dilettante
    (Who hadn’t finished half the andante),
    But feared the servants’ mockings
    Should they see him in his stockings,
    Racing along the corridor:—­
    Not that he thought it horrid, or
    Harsh to transfix him with a dagger,
    (He could not bear the fiddler’s swagger),
    But felt quite sure so droll a figure
    Would make his rude domestics snigger.

    And now his wife cries out for mercy
    (No more she wears that fetching jersey);
    And all in vain she pity claims: 
    The dagger ruthlessly he aims,
    And through the whale-bone of her corset
    Tries unsuccessfully to force it. 
    At last he feels that he’s succeeded,
    A little more than p’rhaps was needed. 
    Ah, that by taking out the knife
    He now could bring her back to life!

    ’Twas his habit, when he got into a pet,
    Invariably to light a cigarette;
    And, having killed his wife, he never spoke
    One word until he’d had a quiet smoke.