How sittest there O' guilded soul
upon thy laureate throne
Above the peasants down below
who cast their votes alone
Thy laws doth make that others keep
and thou a pass exempt
for all doth know thy aged hair
must never be unkempt
Upon the stage pontificate
for others thou must rule
and point thy boney finger down
at those much less the fool
And rip thy papers 'pon front stage
for all the world to see
for thus respect and honor's place
thy soul hast kept from thee
And cast thy judgment far and wide
for thou doth know the best
while ridicule doth fill thy breath
against resistant rest
And lest the churlish down below
hear wind of thy dark pate
remove thyself from honored throne
for thee be much too late
Let curlers fly and dryers swing
upon thy sacred tree
reminders of thy wretched path
that poureth forth from thee
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