I. Gr-R-R There Go, My Heart'S Abhorrence! Water Your Damned Flower-Pots, Do! If Hate Killed Men, Brother Lawrence, God'S Blood, Would Not Mine Kill You! What? Your Myrtle-Bush Wants Trimming? Oh, That Rose Has Prior Claims Needs Its Leaden Vase Filled Brimming? Hell Dry You Up With Its Flames! Ii. At The Meal We Sit Together: Salve Tibi! I Must Hear Wise Talk Of The Kind Of Weather, Sort Of Season, Time Of Year: Not A Plenteous Cork-Crop: Scarcely Dare We Hope Oak-Galls, I Doubt: What's The Latin Name For 'Parsley'? What's The Greek Name For Swine'S Snout? Iii. Whew! We'll Have Our Platter Burnished, Laid With Care On Our Own Shelf! With A Fire-New Spoon We're Furnished, And A Goblet For Ourself, Rinsed Like Something Sacrificial Ere 'Tis Fit To Touch Our Chaps Marked With L. For Our Initial! (He-He! There His Lily Snaps!) Iv. Saint, Forsooth! While Brown Dolores Squats Outside The Convent Bank With Sanchicha, Telling Stories, Steeping Tresses In The Tank, Blue-Black, Lustrous, Thick Like Horsehairs, Can't I See His Dead Eye Glow, Bright As 'Twere A Barbary Corsair'S? (That Is, If he'd Let It Show!) V. When He Finishes Refection, Knife And Fork He Never Lays Cross-Wise, To My Recollection, As Do I, In Jesu'S Praise. I The Trinity Illustrate, Drinking Watered Orange-Pulp In Three Sips The Arian Frustrate; Fwhile He Drains His At One Gulp. Vi. Oh, Those Melons? If He's Able We're To Have A Feast! So Nice! One Goes To The Abbot'S Table, All Of Us Get Each A Slice. How Go On Your Flowers? None Double Not One Fruit-Sort Can You Spy? Strange! And I, Too, At Such Trouble, Keep Them Close-Nipped On The Sly! Vii. There'S A Great Text In Galatians, Once You Trip On It, Entails Twenty-Nine Distinct Damnations, One Sure, If Another Fails: If I Trip Him Just A-Dying, Sure Of Heaven As Sure Can Be, Spin Him Round And Send Him Flying Off To Hell, A Manichee? Viii. Or, My Scrofulous French Novel On Grey Paper With Blunt Type! Simply Glance At It, You Grovel Hand And Foot In Belial'S Gripe: If I Double Down Its Pages At The Woeful Sixteenth Print, When He Gathers His Greengages, Ope A Sieve And Slip It In'T? Ix. Or, There'S Satan! One Might Venture Pledge One'S Soul To Him, Yet Leave Such A Flaw In The Indenture As he'd Miss Till, Past Retrieve, Blasted Lay That Rose-Acacia We're So Proud Of! Hy, Zy, Hine . . . 'St, There'S Vespers! Plena Grati' Ave, Virgo! Gr-R-R You Swine!