Since Shelley's coin were gold in Glory's bank

If Shelley were a brand of heavy tank,

And since thought's very ground and art's demesne

Are shuddered by the throb of one machine,

We should observe the true text of the age

When other hail the footnote as the page

This smacks perhaps of ogre-fancying

But one dead frog can taint the purest springs,

And men, through habit, may forget to think

To scrutinize the wells whereat they drink.

A desk-docked general of ours, unnamed

For sweet discretion's sake, last month proclaimed

A creed for those who must depopulate

The foe; and every even word was hate,

And every odd was Kill-strange sacrament.