To T. Poole: An Invitation

Plucking flowers from the Galaxy

On the pinions of Abstraction,

I did quite forget to ax 'e,

Whether you have an objaction,

With us to swill 'e and to swell 'e

And make a pig-stie of your belly.

A lovely limb most dainty

Of a ci-devant Mud-raker,

I makes bold to acquaint 'e

We've trusted to the Baker:

And underneath it satis

Of the subterrene apple

By the erudite 'clep'd taties—

With which, if you'ld wish to grapple,

As sure as I'm a sloven,

The clock will not strike twice one,

When the said dish will be out of the oven,

And the dinner will be a nice one.



P.S.



Besides we've got some cabbage.

You Jew-dog, if you linger,

May the Itch in pomp of scabbage

Pop out between each finger.