Southerly Busters. Gibson George Herbert

      And his features, grimly smiling, calm, unmoved, (intensely

      riling)

      I betake me to reviling, and a stream of chaff outpour —

      "Say, thou grim and stately brother, has thy fond and doting

      mother

      Got at home like thee another? Art thou really one of four?

      Did she, did she sell the mangle? Tell me truly, I implore!"

      Quoth the Peeler, "Hold your jawr!"

      Long I stood there fiercely glaring, most profanely cursing,

      swearing – .

      And my right arm I was baring, meaning thus the Trap to

      floor —

      Straight he grabbed me by the collar, said 'twas worse than

      vain to holler,

      That his person I must foller to the gloomy prison door;

      "'Tell me, Robert," said I sadly, "must I go the Bench

      before?"

      Quoth the Peeler, "'Tis the lawr!"

      "Shall I be with felons banded, by the 'beak' be reprimanded,

      And with infamy be branded? – thou art versed in prison

      lore —

      Say not, Robert, that my bread will 'ere be earned upon the

      tread-mill,

      That a filthy prison bed will echo to my fevered snore —

      Ever echo to the music of my wild unearthly snore!"

      Quoth the Peeler, "'Tis the lawr!"

      Thought on thought of bitter sadness, dissipating hope and

      gladness,

      Goading me to worse than madness, crowded on me by the

      score;

      Ne'er before incarcerated, how that Peeler's form I hated,

      Cries for freedom, unabated – 'wrenched from out my bosom's

      core' —

      Broke upon the midnight stillness, "Robert, set me free

      once more!"

      Quoth the Peeler, "Never more!"

      Never since the days of Julian was there such a mass herculean

      Clad in garments so cerulean, with so little brains in store;

      And I cursed his name, and number, and his form as useless

      lumber

      Only fit to snore and slumber on a greasy kitchen floor —

      On the slime bespattered boarding of a greasy kitchen floor —

      Fit for this and nothing more!

      And my heart was heavy loaded with a sorrow which

      corroded,

      And my expletives exploded with a deep and muffled roar;

      But a sudden inspiration checked the clammy perspiration

      That 'till now, without cessation, streaming ran from every pore,

      And what checked the perspiration that ran streaming from

      each pore

      Was a thought, and nothing more.

      In my pocket was a shilling! Could that giant form be

      willing,

      Tempted by the hope of swilling beer, to set me free once

      more?

      Tempted by the lust of riches, and the silver shilling

      which is

      In the pocket in my breeches, and my liberty restore?

      Hastily that garment searching, from its depths I fiercely tore

      But a 'Bob,' and nothing more.

      Wrenched it from my trousers' pocket,

      While his eye within the socket gleamed and sparkled like a

      rocket,

      Grimly rolled, and gloated o'er,

      Glared upon me – vainly mining in my pockets' depths —

      repining

      That its worn and threadbare lining

      IT should press, ah! never more.

      Said I, while the coin revealing, "Robert, I've a tender

      feeling

      For the Force there's no concealing, and thy manly form

      adore;

      Thee I ne'er to hurt or slay meant; take, oh! take this

      humble payment —

      Take thy grasp from off my raiment, and thy person from

      my door;

      Though I like thee past expression, though I venerate the

      corps,

      Fain I'd bid thee 'Au revoir!'

      And I view with approbation that official's hesitation,

      For his carnal inclination with his duty was at war;

      But that Peeler, though he muttered, knew which side his

      bread was buttered,

      But a word or two he uttered, and his choking grasp fore-

      bore —

      And he, when his clutching fingers from their choking grasp

      forebore,

      Vanished, and was seen no more.

      Oft at night when I'm returning, and the foot-path scarce

      discerning —

      Whiskey-fumes within me burning like a molten reservoir —

      In imagination kneeling, oft in fancy I'm appealing

      To the kind and manly feeling of that giant Trap once more —

      To the tender kindly feeling of the Trap I saw before —

      Vanished now for ever more!