Censor Literarum

So, Parson Stebbins, you've released your chin To say that here, and here, we press-folk ail. 'Tis a great thing an editor to skin And hang his faulty pelt upon a nail (If over-eared, it has, at least, no tail) And, for an admonition against sin, Point out its maculations with a rod, And act, in short, the gentleman of God. 'Twere needless cruelty to spoil your sport By comment, critical or merely rude; But you, too, have, according to report, Despite your posing as a holy dude, Imperfect spiritual pulchritude For so severe a judge. May't please the court, We shall appeal and take our case at once Before that higher court, a taller dunce. Sir, what were _you_ without the press? What spreads The fame of your existence, once a week, From the Pacific Mail dock to the Heads, Warning the people you're about to wreak Upon the human ear your Sunday freak? Whereat the most betake them to their bed Though some prefer to slumber in the pews And nod assent to your hypnotic views. Unhappy man! can you not still your tongue When (like a luckless brat afflict with worms, By cruel fleas intolerably stung, Or with a pang in its small lap) it squirms? Still must it vulgarize your feats of lung? No preaching better were, the sun beneath, If you had nothing there behind your teeth.