Well, James McMillan Shafter, you're a Judge—
    At least you were when last I knew of you;
  And if the people since have made you budge
    I did not notice it. I've much to do
    Without endeavoring to follow, through
  The miserable squabbles, dust and smudge,
  The fate of even the veteran contenders
  Who fight with flying colors and suspenders.
  Being a Judge, 'tis natural and wrong
    That you should villify the public press—
  Save while you are a candidate. That song
    Is easy quite to sing, and I confess
    It wins applause from hearers who have less
  Of spiritual graces than belong
  To audiences of another kidney—
  Men, for example, like Sir Philip Sidney.

  Newspapers, so you say, don't always treat
    The Judges with respect. That may be so
  And still no harm done, for I swear I'll eat
    My legs and in the long hereafter go,
    Snake-like, upon my belly if you'll show
  All Judges are respectable and sweet.
  For some of them are rogues and the world's laughter's
  Directed at some others, for they're Shafters.