Classic Poem

The sire of Paul and Abbott had lain long
In his clammy lodgment of no sunlight nor noise,
With handsome revenues left upon his boys,
And over him having been said much sermon and song
And from sweet Christian chimes much Ding, Dee, Dong,
And having earned his decease he intended now
To keep it. So the insufferable pow-wow
In his sons' house did him most unfilial wrong.
It pricked him wide awake. He was aware
That his two sons, his own hope and the mother's,
Damaged his name and were notorious brothers,
Paul waxing great and thirsting for the power,
Abbott a death's-head gibing from a tower;
His spectral image writhed as in nightmare.