Chapter IV

If Humour is your little line,
Coherent sense you must resign,
Cry, "Paradox alone's divine!
LAMB had _his_ manner, _this_ is Mine!"
Try strain and twist; gnaw the dry bone
Of mirth till all the marrow's gone;
And crowds, who first stared like a stone,
Your "subtle genius" soon will own.
_Chorus_--Tra-la! We "boom" to-day!
[_Ad nauseam._