Classic Poem

Attend now my muse,
To the subject I chuse;
A subject that none can explode,
For the great and the small,
Must approve one and all,
The song that is taste alamode.

See the wits of the age,
With fury engage,
In politicks dangerous road;
But the reason is plain,
Entre nous 'tis their gain,
Beside, Sir, 'tis taste alamode.

See a jockey's dress grace
My Lord at the race,
That this is absurd is allow'd,
No matter for that,
His lordship cries pat,
You must own it is taste alamode.

Will ye trip to the park,
Where the wife meets her spark,
While poor cornute at home's safe bestow'd;
O fye! this is wrong;
No matter, my song
Shall let it down taste alamode.

To Vaux hall will you go?
Where the belle and the beaux,
To see and be seen thither crowd,
My dear pretty miss,
Will you? — fie, Sir, what kiss?
Why kissing is taste alamode!

Yon cit next behold,
All be-lac'd o'er with gold
Like Phaeton drive on the road;
If you see in the news,
He's a bankrupt — — the muse
Declares that is taste alamode

See yon critic whose rage,
Spares nor youth, sex or age,
Who deal in song, satire or ode,
Should the pedant damn mine,
I shall not repine,
Since damning is taste alamode.

Now let each beau or wit,
Wife, belle, lord, or cit,
On whom I the verse have bestow'd;
Raise their voice to the praise,
Of the bard and the lays,
Which are written in taste alamode.