[Apparently the Cleveland Leader is not a good judge of
      poetry.—The Morning Call.]

  That from you, neighbor! to whose vacant lot
    Each rhyming literary knacker scourges
  His cart-compelling Pegasus to trot,
    As folly, fame or famine smartly 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 wishes, but if I had mine
    'Twould to your editor mean something solemn.