A Hyde Park Larrikin

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, dont 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 dont you d    n 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 wouldnt have been sweeter.     No doubt with shepherds of this time     Hes not the clean potato,     Because excuse me for my rhyme     He pinned his faith to Plato.     But these are facts you cant 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 didnt 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     Youre not a second Arcas.     What sort of gospel do you preach?     What Bible is your Bible?     Theres 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 neighbours 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 devils 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!     Ive 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.