Classic Poem

Take any station, pavement, circus, corner,
Where men their styles of print may call or choose,
And there—ten times more on it than Jack Horner—
There shall you find him swathed in sheets of news.
Nothing can stay the placing of his wares—
Not 'bus, nor cab, nor dray! The very Slop ,
That imp of power, is powerless! Ever he dares,
And, daring, lands his public neck and crop.
Even the many-tortured London ear,
The much-enduring, loathes his Speeshul yell,
His shriek of Winnur ! But his dart and leer
And poise are irresistible. Pall Mall
 Joys in him, and Mile End; for his vocation
 Is to purvey the stuff of conversation.

H E 's called The General from the brazen craft
And dash with which he sneaks a bit of road
And all its fares; challenged, or chafed, or chaffed,
Back-answers of the newest he'll explode;
He reins his horses with an air; he treats
With scoffing calm whatever powers there be;
He gets it straight , puts a bit on , and meets
His losses with both lip and £ s. d. ;
He arrogates a special taste in short ;
Is loftily grateful for a flagrant smoke ;
At all the smarter housemaids winks his court,
And taps them for half-crowns; being stoney-broke ,
 Lives lustily; is ever on the make ;
 And hath. I fear, none other gods but Fake .