Classic Poem

He may have been a barber's clerk,
Or meek suburban draper,
But now the little pup can bark —
He " runs " a country paper.

No doubt the " plant " for many years
Was, like his garret, rented;
For ah, his coppers went in beers,
And when he swiped he — meant it!

But, having dropped across a spouse,
By dint of cheek and credit,
He popped into a larger house,
And got his wife to edit.

He needn't beg for drinks at bars,
For now the rag is floated;
And Mrs Jenkins writes the " pars " ,
And Mr J. is — bloated.

By shouting now and then for rum,
(God help his wretched readers!)
He gets a half-grown pothouse " bum "
To " bullock " at his leaders.

My hero's paunch is full and fat;
But it is darkly hinted
He nearly starves the Vernon rat
By whom his trash is printed.

He doesn't slight his brace of friends,
The paste-pot and the scissors,
Because through them he gains his ends,
And, eke, his morning " fizzers " .

His strong, substantial better-half
Earns all his pocket-money;
And if he lost his wife, the calf
Would feel extremely " funny "

(If grammar, reader, you should miss
In the preceding stanza,
Just let me rip, and look at this
As mere extravaganza.)

My Jenkins is the lad of lads
(Don't interrupt, you scorner)
To poke about for shilling " ads "
In every hole and corner.

I do believe that he would munch
The mud of half the Tiber,
To get outside a glass of punch,
Or at a new subscriber.

You'll meeet him by the musty tap
In yonder dirty shanty;
And, oh! he's not the sort of chap
To edit Kant or Dante!

He's better at the little game
Of cracking up clodhoppers;
And so he carries out his aim,
And so he collars coppers.

If bumpkins Billy gets a scar,
You may depend upon it
'Twill form the subject of a " par " —
The topic of a sonnet.

When Mrs Tompkins cuts the corn
That on her toe has sprouted,
Our canny printer blows his horn
And tells the world about it.

No advertising booby need
Go far to get a " puff " up.
In juggling Jenk he'll find indeed
The boy to pile the " bluff " up.

In fact, the " dishclout " every time
Comes bristling out with " locals "
(The Lord forgive me for the rhyme)
About pig-headed yokels.

You see, my friend is wide awake!
His game — I'd like to try it,
Because I'm very sure I'd make
A d — d good living by it.

He write a leader! Why to tell
The honest truth, O neighbour,
His wife can't teach him how to spell —
She's given up the labour.

She worked for years; but then it's clear
His head is like a boulder.
The bullock sports a yard of ear
Above each shaggy shoulder.

But yet, by jobbing " on the cheap " ,
And cadging round and blowing,
He gathers in enough to keep
His hurdy-gurdy going.

As doubtless reader you will guess,
This pert potato skinner
Pops up to represent the " press "
At every country dinner.

Just reckon him from toe to pate;
His mouth you see is ample.
It strikes me of the Fourth Estate
He forms a sorry sample.

I think I'll drop the paltry pup —
A clown is not a comet!
Here, waiter, pass the liquor up —
I feel inclined to vomit.

The booby, when he bolts his punch,
Will take my words for praises;
But hang it! I must go to lunch,
And he may go to — blazes.