Classic Poem

Thou tool of faction, mercenary scribe,
Who preachest treason to the Calveshead tribe,
Whose fruitful head, in garret mounted high,
Sees legions, and strange monsters, in the sky;
Who would'st with war and blood thy country fill,
Were but thy power as rampant as thy will:
Well may'st thou boast thy self a million strong,
But 'tis in vermin that about thee throng.