Man the Tyrant

This furred and feathered boss of bird and brute

Assumed the god, all bloody airs and graces,

Nor deigned to look down in his subjects' faces,

Treating each creature like a mildewed boot.

He swilled, he gorged, but his preferred pursuit

Mixed sticking pigs and whipping hounds on chases,

Marches through arches, blown brass and tossed maces,

With decking Eve, that bitch, in hunter's loot.

The beasts had hunted looks, being forced to make,

Poor wretches, the bad best of a bad job

And put up with that swine – all save the snake

Who, spitting like a kettle on a hob,

Weaved at the foul shapes tyranny can take

And hissed: "I'll get you yet, you fucking snob."