There was a cranky Governor—
    His name it wasn't Waterman.
    For office he was hotter than
  The love of any lover, nor
  Was Boruck's threat of aiding him
  Effective in dissuading him—
    This pig-headed, big-headed, singularly self-conceited Governor Nonwaterman.

  To citrus fairs, et cftera,
    He went about philandering,
    To pride of parish pandering.
  He knew not any better—ah,
  His early education had
  Not taught the abnegation fad—
    The wool-witted, bull-witted, fabulously feeble-minded king of gabble-gandering!

  He conjured up, ad libitum,
    With postures energetical,
    One day (this is prophetical)
  His graces, to exhibit 'em.
  He straddled in each attitude,
  Four parallels of latitude—
    The slab-footed, crab-footed, galloping gregarian, of presence unfsthetical!
  An ancient cow, perceiving that
    His powers of agility
    Transcended her ability
  (A circumstance for grieving at)
  Upon her horns engrafted him
  And to the welkin wafted him—
    The high-rolling, sky-rolling, hurtling hallelujah-lad of peerless volatility!

  A CALLER

  "Why, Goldenson, you're looking very well."
   Said Death as, strolling through the County Jail,
  He entered that serene assassin's cell
    And hung his hat and coat upon a nail.
  "I think that life in this secluded spot
  Agrees with men of your trade, does it not?"

  "Well, yes," said Goldenson, "I can't complain:
    Life anywhere—provided it is mine—
  Agrees with me; but I observe with pain
    That still the people murmur and repine.
  It hurts their sense of harmony, no doubt,
  To see a persecuted man grow stout."

  "O no, 'tis not your growing stout," said Death,
    "Which makes these malcontents complain and scold—
  They like you to be, somehow, scant of breath.
    What they object to is your growing old.
  And—though indifferent to lean or fat—
  I don't myself entirely favor that."

  With brows that met above the orbs beneath,
    And nose that like a soaring hawk appeared,
  And lifted lip, uncovering his teeth,
    The Mamikellikiller coldly sneered:
  "O, so you don't! Well, how will you assuage
  Your spongy passion for the blood of age?"

  Death with a clattering convulsion, drew
    His coat on, hatted his unmeated pow,
  Unbarred the door and, stepping partly through,
    Turned and made answer: "I will show you how.
  I'm going to the Bench you call Supreme
  And tap the old women who sit there and dream."