To a Grabber

If, Prentiss Maslin, you would kindly leave
A coin or two of what the State has hoarded
We’d think it generous of you; for we’ve
But just begun our fortunes to retrieve,
Having lost all our treasury afforded
To certain robbers, who, departing, left
Us you as a memorial of the theft.

Memorial? Bless you! you’re the very thing
Incarnate⁠—and by no means any cleaner
For incarnation. Sir, you are the king
Of crimes, grown great and proud remembering
When you were young and but a misdemeanor.
Let lesser souls be ravenous of pelf,
He scorns the gains of greed who’s greed itself.

What! shall a firework covetously yearn
While splendoring the skies⁠—a gorgeous rocket
Where golden constellations grandly burn⁠—
To take the earth along? ’Tis sad to learn
That even the robe of glory has a pocket.
In you, alas! I’d fondly hoped to see
One man that loved himself unselfishly.