Classic Poem

THIS is The M AN — all shaven and shorn,
All cover'd with Orders — and all forlorn;
The D ANDY OF S IXTY ,
who bows with a grace,
And has taste in wigs, collars,
cuirasses and lace;
Who, to tricksters, and fools,
leaves the State and its treasure,
And, when Britain's in tears,
sails about aThis pleasure:
Who spurn'd from his presence
the Friends of his youth,
And now has not one
who will tell him the truth;
Who took to his counsels,
in evil hour,
The Friends to the Reasons
of lawless Power;
That back the Public Informer,
who
Would put down the Thing ,
that, in spite of new Acts,
And attempts to restrain it,
by Soldiers or Tax,
Will poison the Vermin,
That plunder the Wealth,
That lay in the House,
That Jack built.