A Silurian Holiday - Poem by Ambrose Bierce
'Tis Master Fitch, the editor;
He takes an holiday.
Now wherefore, venerable sir,
So resolutely gay?
He lifts his head, he laughs aloud,
Odzounds! 'tis drear to see!
'Because the Boodle-Scribbler crowd
Will soon be far from me.
'Full many a year I've striven well
To freeze the caitiffs out
By making this good town a Hell,
But still they hang about.
'They maken mouths and eke they grin
At the dollar limit game;
And they are holpen in that sin
By many a wicked dame.
'In sylvan bowers hence I'll dwell
My bruised mind to ease.
Farewell, ye urban scenes, farewell!
Hail, unfamiliar trees!'
Forth Master Fitch did bravely hie,
And all the country folk
Besought him that he come not nigh
The deadly poison oak!
He smiled a cheerful smile (the day
Was straightway overcast)
The poison oak along his way
Was blighted as he passed!
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