Classic Poem

Paint, the poor wanton, is upon the Town,
Suing for gold to emperor and clown;
Go where you may, you meet her everywhere,
And when you meet her, there's a trader there.
The Trader! on the nimble dollar bent,
Who plays procurer for a huge per cent,
And starves the living genius out of sight,
And robs the dead of every vested right,
And leaves the Millets of a Christian land
To beg for bread from Pity's niggard hand,
While cheering still the coarse, commercial crew
That peddles pigment to the parvenu,
Till Time, the pitiless, shall fix its place,
And cheap-jacks who have led shall tail the race.