Classic Poem

Eccentric orb, shot madly from thy sphere,
Planet without a plan, dost travel on thine ear,
A courier out of place,
Through wide expanse of space,
Bent on a bender?
Nebulous known, indef'nite, fluctuating,
Of volume vast, but thin, wide-circulating,
Thou holy, high, translated Legal Tender,
Approach, come nigher! obliging acquiesce,
For, lo! neat-handed gentry of the Press
Would fain go through thee,
And I — though unaccustomed quite to vapor,
And not detailed by any morning paper —
Am here to interview thee.
Give us thy lineage, and thy plans define,
Length over all — and sure thy Water Line;
We have one end of thy ancestral vine, —
We know thy sire
To be Coggia.
But round the record; tell us of thy dam.
Art thou not worth one? Is thy flourish flam?
Art thou indeed but a transparent sham,
In all tradition linked with woe and slaughter —
In fact, a vapid cheat that won't hold water?

But whether yes or no,
Pray tell us further, apropos
Of water, — ramping round, eccentric, crabbed, —
Ere thou com'st nearer, tell us, art thou rabid?
Has Sirius bit thee?
Art threatening still because the starry cops
Shoot like our own, and after many pops
Have failed to hit thee?
If nought 's the matter
With thy medulla oblongata ,
And thou 'rt not mad, — though at thee thus we stare, —
Tell us the chance of fancy stocks up there;
What are the movements now of bull and bear?
Do things all round look blue?
Art thou the ghost of Daniel Drew?
That Milky Way, where all the small stars meet,
Is 't there, O Comet, that they milk the street?
Aquarius with his pot,
Who waters, waters, with one ceaseless drip,
And only rests at times to dry his scrip, —
Is that man Sage, or not?
Earnings of railroads, are they sometimes " pooled " ?
The little fishes, are they ever fooled?
And the Great Bear, is his true name Jay Gould?
Would things roll smooth along the taurine track
If 't were not for one baleful orb — Cammack?
Thou canst not tell! ah, yes, one ought to know, —
Thou'rt up above, and brokers meet below!

Have they newspapers up above the moon?
In thee I seem to see a glorified " Tribune, "
Some " Times " translated, or a " World " made sweet.
Thy tail, what is it but an extra sheet?

That tail, O Comet, gives another text
For questions: ends it here, complete, convexed,
Or is 't " to be continued in our next, " —
In the next world, like Braddon's, Wilkie Collins',
And that most " Ancient History " known as Rollin's,
Which, when we thought we 'd captured its last " colume, "
Always outflanked us with another volume?

Swaggering through space with baleful, angry glare,
Art thou the " bouncer " of the upper air?
Wilt knock us out — unless we " up and dust, "
Snatch us bald-headed, bust our ancient crust?
If that's thy game, put up thy fins; why, dump it,
Earth 's full of grit. Thou canst not come it, Comet!