Ambrose Bierce - Black Beetles in Amber

"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."

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.

FITCH a Pelter of Railrogues
PICKERING his Partner, an Enemy to Sin
OLD NICK a General Blackwasher
DEAD CAT a Missile
ANTIQUE EGG Another
RAILROGUES, DUMP-CARTERS. NAVVIES and Unassorted SHOVELRY in the Lower Distance
Scene —The Brink of a Railway Cut, a Mile Deep.
Time —1875.

Gods! what a steep declivity! Below
I see the lazy dump-carts come and go,
Creeping like beetles and about as big.
The delving Paddies—

Case of infra dig.

Loring, light-minded and unmeaning quips
Come with but scant propriety from lips
Fringed with the blue-black evidence of age.
'Twere well to cultivate a style more sage,
For men will fancy, hearing how you pun,
Our foulest missiles are but thrown in fun.
( Enter Dead Cat. )
Here's one that thoughtfully has come to hand; Slant your fine eye below and see it land. ( Seizes Dead Cat by the tail and swings it in act to throw. )
DEAD CAT( singing ):
Merrily, merrily, round I go—
Over and under and at.
Swing wide and free, swing high and low
The anti-monopoly cat!
O, who wouldn't be in the place of me,
The anti-monopoly cat?
Designed to admonish,
Persuade and astonish
The capitalist and—
FITCH (letting go):
Scat! (Exit Dead Cat.)

Huzza! good Deacon, well and truly flung!
Pat Stanford it has grassed, and Mike de Young.
Mike drives a dump-cart for the villains, though
'Twere fitter that he pull it. Well, we owe
The traitor one for leaving us!—some day
We'll get, if not his place, his cart away.
Meantime fling missiles—any kind will do.
(Enter Antique Egg.)
Ha! we can give them an ovation , too!

In the valley of the Nile,
Where the Holy Crocodile
Of immeasurable smile
Blossoms like the early rose,
And the Sacred Onion grows—
When the Pyramids were new
And the Sphinx possessed a nose,
By a storkess I was laid
In the cool papyrus shade,
Where the rushes later grew,
That concealed the little Jew,
Baby Mose.
Straining very hard to hatch,
I disrupted there my yolk;
And I felt my yellow streaming
Through my white;
And the dream that I was dreaming
Of posterity was broke
In a night.
Then from the papyrus-patch
By the rising waters rolled,
Passing many a temple old,
I proceeded to the sea.
Memnon sang, one morn, to me,
And I heard Cambyses sass
The tomb of Ozymandias!

O, venerablest orb of all the earth,
God rest the lady fowl that gave thee birth!
Fit missile for the vilest hand to throw—
I freely tender thee mine own. Although
As a bad egg I am myself no slouch,
Thy riper years thy ranker worth avouch.
Now, Pickering, please expose your eye and say
If—whoop!—
(Exit egg.)
I've got the range.
PICKERING:
Hooray! hooray!
A grand good shot, and Teddy Colton's down:
It burst in thunderbolts upon his crown!
Larry O'Crocker drops his pick and flies,
And deafening odors scream along the skies!
Pelt 'em some more.

There's nothing left but tar— wish I were a Yahoo.

Well, you are.
But keep the tar. How well I recollect,
When Mike was in with us—proud, strong, erect—
Mens conscia recti —flinging mud, he stood,
Austerely brave, incomparably good,
Ere yet for filthy lucre he began
To drive a cart as Stanford's hired man,
That pitch-pot bearing in his hand, Old Nick
Appeared and tarred us all with the same stick.
(Enter Old Nick) .
I hope he won't return and use his arts
To make us part with our immortal parts.

Make yourself easy on that score my lamb;
For both your souls I wouldn't give a damn!
I want my tar-pot—hello! where's the stick?

Don't look at me that fashion!—look at Pick.

Forgive me, father—pity my remorse!
Truth is—Mike took that stick to spank his horse.
It fills my pericardium with grief
That I kept company with such a thief.
( Endeavoring to get his handkerchief, he opens his coat and the tar-stick falls out. Nick picks it up, looks at the culprit reproachfully and withdraws in tears. )
FITCH ( excitedly ):
O Pickering, come hither to the brink—
There's something going on down there, I think!
With many an upward smile and meaning wink
The navvies all are running from the cut
Like lunatics, to right and left—
PICKERING:
Tut, tut—
'Tis only some poor sport or boisterous joke.
Let us sit down and have a quiet smoke.
( They sit and light cigars. )
FITCH( singing ):
When first I met Miss Toughie
I smoked a fine cigyar,
An' I was on de dummy
And she was in de cyar.
BOTH( singing ):
An' I was on de dummy
And she was in de cyar.
FITCH( singing ):
I couldn't go to her,
An' she wouldn't come to me;
An' I was as oneasy
As a gander on a tree.
BOTH( singing ):
An' I was as oneasy
As a gander on a tree.
FITCH( singing ):
But purty soon I weakened
An' lef' de dummy's bench,
An' frew away a ten-cent weed
To win a five-cent wench!
BOTH( singing )
An' frew away a ten-cent weed
To win a five-cent wench!