So, Parson Stebbins, you've released your chin
    To say that here, and here, we press-folk ail.
  'Tis a great thing an editor to skin
    And hang his faulty pelt upon a nail
    (If over-eared, it has, at least, no tail)
  And, for an admonition against sin,
  Point out its maculations with a rod,
  And act, in short, the gentleman of God.

  'Twere needless cruelty to spoil your sport
    By comment, critical or merely rude;
  But you, too, have, according to report,
    Despite your posing as a holy dude,
    Imperfect spiritual pulchritude
  For so severe a judge. May't please the court,
  We shall appeal and take our case at once
  Before that higher court, a taller dunce.

  Sir, what were you without the press? What spreads
    The fame of your existence, once a week,
  From the Pacific Mail dock to the Heads,
    Warning the people you're about to wreak
    Upon the human ear your Sunday freak?—
  Whereat the most betake them to their bed
  Though some prefer to slumber in the pews
  And nod assent to your hypnotic views.

  Unhappy man! can you not still your tongue
    When (like a luckless brat afflict with worms,
  By cruel fleas intolerably stung,
    Or with a pang in its small lap) it squirms?
  Still must it vulgarize your feats of lung?
  No preaching better were, the sun beneath,
  If you had nothing there behind your teeth.