The Jack of Clubs

Jerome, you are a mighty famous man⁠—
  District Attorney, I believe they call you.
Some shout your praise as loudly as they can,
  And some, apparently, just live to maul you.
  But whether good or ill repute befall you,
Your critics can’t deny that, as a rule,
  You take it standing⁠—though the wits among
Them say you stand, as does the singing mule,
  The better to perform your feats of lung.
And, truly from the dawning to the gloaming,
When in good voice, you’re usually Jeroming.

O, well, we must have music⁠—’tis a need,
  Like Ibsen, Shaw or the “Edenic diet”;
Though sometimes silence is desired⁠—indeed,
  There’s much that may be said in praise of quiet,
  And possibly you might do worse than try it.
’Twere better, anyhow, than fool advice
  To the police to club their fellow men,
Too sore already. Sir, it is not nice
  To free your snouty virtues from the pen⁠—
Unless, as once in Gadara, they’ll scamper
Down a steep place to where ’tis greatly damper.

Jerome, the best of us are those who care
  To hide from view the monsters that inhabit
Our hearts, and when too closely questioned swear
  We’ve nothing fiercer than a sheep or rabbit.
  Seeing an opportunity, you grab it
And lifting up the curtain, show the whole
  Menagerie of thoughts and feelings which
Infest the secret places of your soul
  Like newts and water-puppies in a ditch.
O, great reformer! hide from observation
The unpleasing spectacle of Reformation.