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Henry Kendall - A Hyde Park LarrikinHenry Kendall - A Hyde Park Larrikin
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You may have heard of Proclus, sir,  If you have been a reader; And you may know a bit of her  Who helped the Lycian leader. I have my doubts the head you "sport"  (Now mark me, don`t get crusty) Is hardly of the classic sort  Your lore, I think, is fusty. Most likely you have stuck to tracts  Flushed through with flaming curses I judge you, neighbour, by your acts  So don`t you damn my verses. But to my theme. The Asian sage,  Whose name above I mention, Lived in the pitchy Pagan age,  A life without pretension. He may have worshipped gods like Zeus,  And termed old Dis a master; But then he had a strong excuse  He never heard a pastor. However, it occurs to me  That, had he cut Demeter And followed you, or followed me,  He wouldn`t have been sweeter. No doubt with "shepherds" of this time  He`s not the "clean potato", Because excuse me for my rhyme  He pinned his faith to Plato. But these are facts you can`t deny,  My pastor, smudged and sooty, His mind was like a summer sky  He lived a life of beauty To lift his brothers` thoughts above  This earth he used to labour: His heart was luminous with love  He didn`t wound his neighbour. To him all men were just the same  He never foamed at altars, Although he lived ere Moody came  Ere Sankey dealt in psalters. The Lycian sage, my "reverend" sir,  Had not your chances ample; But, after all, I must prefer  His perfect, pure example. You, having read the Holy Writ  The Book the angels foster Say have you helped us on a bit,  You overfed impostor? What have you done to edify,  You clammy chapel tinker? What act like his of days gone by  The grand old Asian thinker? Is there no deed of yours at all  With beauty shining through it? Ah, no! your heart reveals its gall  On every side I view it. A blatant bigot with a big  Fat heavy fetid carcass, You well become your greasy "rig"  You`re not a second Arcas. What sort of "gospel" do you preach?  What "Bible" is your Bible? There`s worse than wormwood in your speech,  You livid, living libel! How many lives are growing gray  Through your depraved behaviour! I tell you plainly every day  You crucify the Saviour! Some evil spirit curses you  Your actions never vary: You cannot point your finger to  One fact to the contrary. You seem to have a wicked joy  In your malicious labour, Endeavouring daily to destroy  The neighbour`s love for neighbour. The brutal curses you eject  Make strong men dread to hear you. The world outside your petty sect  Feels sick when it is near you. No man who shuns that little hole  You call your tabernacle Can have, you shriek, a ransomed soul  He wears the devil`s shackle. And, hence the "Papist" by your clan  Is dogged with words inhuman, Because he loves that friend of man  The highest type of woman Because he has that faith which sees  Before the high Creator A Virgin pleading on her knees  A shining Mediator! God help the souls who grope in night  Who in your ways have trusted! I`ve said enough! the more I write,  The more I feel disgusted. The warm, soft air is tainted through  With your pernicious leaven. I would not live ~one hour~ with you  In your peculiar heaven! Now mount your musty pulpit thump,  And muddle flat clodhoppers; And let some long-eared booby "hump"  The plate about for coppers. At priest and parson spit and bark,  And shake your "church" with curses, You bitter blackguard of the dark  With this I close my verses.
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