Ambrose Bierce - Black Beetles in Amber

Digest my dog!

First square my claim for damages: the gold
Escaping with the slickens keeps me poor!

I merely would remark that if you'd grease
My itching palm it would more glibly glide
Into the public pocket.

Sir, the wheels
Of justice move but slowly till they're oiled.
I have some certain writs and warrants here,
Prepared against your advent. You recall
The tale of Zaccheus, who did climb a tree,
And Jesus said: "Come down"?

Why, bless your souls!
I've got no money; I but came to see
What all this noisy babble is about,
Make a report and file the same away.

How'll that help us ? Reports are not our style
Of provender!

Well, you can gnaw the file.
( Curtain. )

My friend, I beg that you will lend your ears
(I know 'tis asking a good deal of you)
While I for your instruction nominate
Some certain wrongs you suffer. Men like you
Imperfectly are sensible of all
The miseries they actually feel.
Hence, Providence has prudently raised up
Clear-sighted men like me to diagnose
Their cases and inform them where they're hurt.
The wounds of honest workingmen I've made
A specialty, and probing them's my trade.

Well, Mister, s'pose you let yer bossest eye
Camp on my mortal part awhile; then you
Jes' toot my sufferin's an' tell me what's
The fashionable caper now in writhes—
The very swellest wiggle.

Well, my lad,
'Tis plain as is the long, conspicuous nose
Borne, ponderous and pendulous, between
The elephant's remarkable eye-teeth
( Enter Tok Bak. )
That Chinese competition's what ails you .
BOTH( Singing ):
O pig-tail Celestial,
O barbarous bestial,
Abominable Chinee!
Simian fellow man,
Primitive yellow man,
Joshian devotee!
Shoe-and-cigar machine,
Oleomargarine
You are, and butter are we—
Fat of the land are we,
Salt of the earth;
In God's image planned to be—
Noble in birth!
You, on the contrary,
Modeled upon very
Different lines indeed,
Show in conspicuous,
Base and ridiculous
Ways your inferior breed.
Wretched apology,
Shame of ethnology,
Monster unspeakably low!
Fit to be buckshotted—
Be you 'steboycotted.
Vanish—vamoose—mosy—Go!

You listen me! You beatee the big dlum
An' tell me go to Flowly Kingdom Come.
You all too muchee fool. You chinnee heap.
Such talkee like my washee—belly cheap!
( Enter Satan. )
You dlive me outee clunty towns all way;
Why you no tackle me Safflisco, hay?

Methought I heard a murmuring of tongues
Sound through the ceiling of the hollow earth,
As if the anti-coolie ques——ha! friends,
Well met. You see I keep my ancient word:
Where two or three are gathered in my name,
There am I in their midst.

O monstrous thief!
To quote the words of Shakespeare as your own.
I know his work.

Who's Shakespeare?—what's his trade?
I've heard about the work o' that galoot
Till I'm jest sick!

Go Sunny school—you'll know
Mo' Bible. Bime by pleach—hell-talkee. Tell
'Bout Abel—mebby so he live too cheap.
He mebby all time dig on lanch—no dlink,
No splee—no go plocession fo' make vote—
No sendee money out of clunty fo'
To helpee Ilishmen. Cain killum. Josh
He catchee at it, an' he belly mad—
Say: "Allee Melicans boycottee Cain."
Not muchee—you no pleachee that:
You all same lie.

This cuss must be expelled. ( Draws pistol .)
MOUNTWAVE, HARDHAND, SATAN( singing ):
For Chinese expulsion, hurrah!
To mobbing and murder, all hail!
Away with your justice and law—
We'll make every pagan turn tail.

Bedad! oof dot tief o'ze vorld—
Zat Ivan Tchanay vos got hurled
In Hella, da debil he say:
"Wor be yer return pairmit, hey?"
Und gry as 'e shaka da boot:
"Zis haythen haf nevaire been oot!"

Too many cooks are working at this broth—
I think, by thunder, t'will be mostly froth!
I'm cussed ef I can sarvy, up to date,
What good this dern fandango does the State.

The State's advantage, sir, you may not see,
But think how good it is for me.

And me.
( Curtain .)

This is the spot agreed upon. Here rest
The sainted statesman who upon the field
Of honor have at various times laid down
Their own, and ended, ignominious,
Their lives political. About me, lo!
Their silent headstones, gilded by the moon,
Half-full and near her setting—midnight. Hark!
Through the white mists of this portentous night
(Which throng in moving shapes about my way,
As they were ghosts of candidates I've slain,
To fray their murderer) my open ear,
Spacious to maw the noises of the world,
Engulfs a footstep.
( Enter Estee from his tomb. )
Ah, 'tis he, my foe,
True to appointment; and so here we fight—
Though truly 'twas my firm belief that he
Would send regrets, or I had not been here.

O moon that hast so oft surprised the deeds
Whereby I rose to greatness!—tricksy orb,
The type and symbol of my politics,
Now draw my ebbing fortunes to their flood,
As, by the magic of a poultice, boils
That burn ambitions with defeated fires
Are lifted into eminence.
( Sees De Young. )
What? you!
Faith, if I had suspected you would come
From the fair world of politics wherein
So lately you were whelped, and which, alas,
I vainly to revisit strive, though still
Rapped on the rotting head and bidden sleep
Till Resurrection's morn,—if I had thought
You would accept the challenge that I flung
I would have seen you damned ere I came forth
In the night air, shroud-clad and shivering,
To fight so mean a thing! But since you're here,
Draw and defend yourself. By gad, we'll see
Who'll be Postmaster-General!