As grubs in dung piles batten in the dark,
then when they ripen, climb a tree--and hark!
On wings of filth they fan the summer air
And drone to one and all that they are there.
So this grub-fellow likewise filled his maw
With mards of learning and with draughts of gall
And from his choler cast an envious sting
And with a locust's voice attempts to sing
Creaking an endless me! me! me!
As if his smears were somehow poetry
And if we question him, with insect spite
He spits in our face, and then attempts to bite.
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