A Critic

That from you, neighbor! to whose vacant lot
Each rhyming literary knacker scourges
His cart-compelling Pegasus to trot,
As folly, vanity or famine urges?

Admonished by the stimulating goad,
How gaily, lo! the spavined crow-bait prances⁠—
Its cart before it⁠—eager to unload
The dead-dog sentiments and swill-tub fancies.

Gravely the sweating scavenger pulls out
The tail-board of his curst imagination,
Shoots all his rascal rubbish, and, no doubt,
Thanks Fortune for so good a dumping-station.

To improve your property, the vile cascade
Your thrift invites⁠—to make a higher level.
In vain: with tons of garbage overlaid,
Your baseless bog sinks slowly to the devil.

“Rubbish may be shot here”⁠—familiar sign!
I seem to see it in your every column.
You have your wish, but, sir, if I had mine
’Twould to your editors mean something solemn.