 | The collected works of Ambrose Bierce |  |
AN IMPOSTOR
Must you, Carnegie, evermore explainYour worth, and all the reasons give again
Why black and red are similarly white
And you and God identically right?
Still must our ears without redress submit
To hear you play the solemn hypocrite
Walking in spirit some high moral level,
Raising at once his eye-balls and the devil?
Great King of Cant! if Nature had but made
Your mouth without a tongue I ne'er had prayed
To have an earless head. Since she did not,
Bear me, ye whirlwinds, to some favored spot—
Some mountain pinnacle that sleeps in air
So delicately, mercifully rare
309
As, for my sins, I know at last he will,
To utter twaddle in that void inane
His soundless organ he will play in vain.
| The collected works of Ambrose Bierce | |