The Unpardonable Sin

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Title:     The Unpardonable Sin
Author: Ambrose Bierce [More Titles by Bierce]

I reckon that ye never knew,
That dandy slugger, Tom Carew,
He had a touch as light an' free
As that of any honey-bee;
But where it lit there wasn't much
To jestify another touch.
O, what a Sunday-school it was
To watch him puttin' up his paws
An' roominate upon their heft--
Particular his holy left!
Tom was my style--that's all I say;
Some others may be equal gay.
What's come of him? Dunno, I'm sure--
He's dead--which make his fate obscure.
I only started in to clear
One vital p'int in his career,
Which is to say--afore he died
He soiled his erming mighty snide.
Ye see he took to politics
And learnt them statesmen-fellers' tricks;
Pulled wires, wore stovepipe hats, used scent,
Just like he was the President;
Went to the Legislator; spoke
Right out agin the British yoke--
But that was right. He let his hair
Grow long to qualify for Mayor,
An' once or twice he poked his snoot
In Congress like a low galoot!
It had to come--no gent can hope
To wrastle God agin the rope.
Tom went from bad to wuss. Being dead,
I s'pose it oughtn't to be said,
For sech inikities as flow
From politics ain't fit to know;
But, if you think it's actin' white
To tell it--Thomas throwed a fight!

[The end]
Ambrose Bierce's poem: Unpardonable Sin

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