Ambrose Bierce Poems

In Congress once great Mowther shone,
Debating weighty matters;
Now into an asylum thrown,
He vacuously chatters.
...

Cried Allen Forman: 'Doctor, pray
Compose my spirits' strife:
O what may be my chances, say,
Of living all my life?
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The Senate woke; the Chairman's snore
Was stilled, its echoes balking;
The startled members dreamed no more,
For Steele, who long had held the floor,
Had suddenly ceased talking.
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'Authority, authority!' they shout
Whose minds, not large enough to hold a doubt,
Some chance opinion ever entertain,
By dogma billeted upon their brain.
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I ne'er could be entirely fond
Of any maiden who's a blonde,
And no brunette that e'er I saw
Had charms my heart's whole
warmth to draw.
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A Countess (so they tell the tale)
Who dwelt of old in Arno's vale,
Where ladies, even of high degree,
Know more of love than of A.B.C,
Came once with a prodigious bribe
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Ben Bulger was a silver man,
Though not a mine had he:
He thought it were a noble plan
To make the coinage free.
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So, Parson Stebbins, you've released your chin
To say that here, and here, we press-folk ail.
'Tis a great thing an editor to skin
And hang his faulty pelt upon a nail
(If over-eared, it has, at least, no tail)
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Jacob Jacobs, of Oakland, he swore:
'Dat Solomon Martin-I'll haf his gore!'
Solomon Martin, of Oakland, he said:
'Of Shacob Shacobs der bleed I vill shed!'
So they met, with seconds and surgeon at call,
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Liars for witnesses; for lawyers brutes
Who lose their tempers to retrieve their suits;
Cowards for jurors; and for judge a clown
Who ne'er took up the law, yet lays it down;
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