* * *

O blazing Muse of pure satire!
Come forth on my inviting call!
I do not need the thundering lyre,
Give me the scourge of Juvenal!
And neither lifeless imitators
Nor hungry, gluttonous translators,
Nor rhymesters, unsatisfied,
Shall fester from my pen tonight.
Peace to the poets, poor creators,
Peace to the journal’s adulators,
Peace to the fools who have been tamed!
But rascals, you I’ll put to shame, —
Come forth you villains, don’t resist!
And everyone I’ll punished then
But if by chance one I shall miss,
Please do remind me, gentlemen!
How many faces -- shameless-pale,
How many forehands — dull and stale,
Stand here, all ready to acquire
The timeless imprint of my lyre!