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The High Priest
Nay, why do foolish politicians strive
To win a fleeting popularity?
In vain, in vain, they jealously contrive
To turn the doting Public Eye from Me.
What was this land, this nation, destined for?
For Art, Trade, Politics? All out of place.
Behold, I am the Sporting Editor!
I call the race!
Reviewers, leader writers—what are they?
Subs, poets, novelists? Scribes of a sort—
Mere puny scribbling creatures of a day;
While I, the people's idol, stand for Sport!
For mark, when inspiration falls on me,
What recks the public of that nameless band?
I ope my lips, and wisdom, gushing free,
O'erflows the land.
