A Discontented Sugar Broker

A GENTLEMAN of City fame     Now claims your kind attention;     East India broking was his game,     His name I shall not mention:     No one of finely-pointed sense     Would violate a confidence,     And shall _I_ go     And do it? No!     His name I shall not mention.     He had a trusty wife and true,     And very cosy quarters,     A manager, a boy or two,     Six clerks, and seven porters.     A broker must be doing well     (As any lunatic can tell)     Who can employ     An active boy,     Six clerks, and seven porters.     His knocker advertised no dun,     No losses made him sulky,     He had one sorrow only one     He was extremely bulky.     A man must be, I beg to state,     Exceptionally fortunate     Who owns his chief     And only grief     Is being very bulky.     "This load," he'd say, "I cannot bear;     I'm nineteen stone or twenty!     Henceforward I'll go in for air     And exercise in plenty."     Most people think that, should it come,     They can reduce a bulging tum     To measures fair     By taking air     And exercise in plenty.     In every weather, every day,     Dry, muddy, wet, or gritty,     He took to dancing all the way     From Brompton to the City.     You do not often get the chance     Of seeing sugar brokers dance     From their abode     In Fulham Road     Through Brompton to the City.     He braved the gay and guileless laugh     Of children with their nusses,     The loud uneducated chaff     Of clerks on omnibuses.     Against all minor things that rack     A nicely-balanced mind, I'll back     The noisy chaff     And ill-bred laugh     Of clerks on omnibuses.     His friends, who heard his money chink,     And saw the house he rented,     And knew his wife, could never think     What made him discontented.     It never entered their pure minds     That fads are of eccentric kinds,     Nor would they own     That fat alone     Could make one discontented.     "Your riches know no kind of pause,     Your trade is fast advancing;     You dance but not for joy, because     You weep as you are dancing.     To dance implies that man is glad,     To weep implies that man is sad;     But here are you     Who do the two     You weep as you are dancing!"     His mania soon got noised about     And into all the papers;     His size increased beyond a doubt     For all his reckless capers:     It may seem singular to you,     But all his friends admit it true     The more he found     His figure round,     The more he cut his capers.     His bulk increased no matter that     He tried the more to toss it     He never spoke of it as "fat,"     But "adipose deposit."     Upon my word, it seems to me     Unpardonable vanity     (And worse than that)     To call your fat     An "adipose deposit."     At length his brawny knees gave way,     And on the carpet sinking,     Upon his shapeless back he lay     And kicked away like winking.     Instead of seeing in his state     The finger of unswerving Fate,     He laboured still     To work his will,     And kicked away like winking.     His friends, disgusted with him now,     Away in silence wended     I hardly like to tell you how     This dreadful story ended.     The shocking sequel to impart,     I must employ the limner's art     If you would know,     This sketch will show     How his exertions ended.     MORAL.     I hate to preach I hate to prate     - I'm no fanatic croaker,     But learn contentment from the fate     Of this East India broker.     He'd everything a man of taste     Could ever want, except a waist;     And discontent     His size anent,     And bootless perseverance blind,     Completely wrecked the peace of mind     Of this East India broker.