  I should like to remark that Dame Rumor Is the most unalluring of jades. She has little or no sense of humor, And her fables are worse than George Ade’s. (Or rather, I mean, if the reader prefers, That the fables of Ade are much better than hers!) Her appearance imbues one with loathing, From her jaundiced, malevolent eyes To the tinsel she cares to call clothing, Which is merely a patchwork of lies. For her garments are such that a child could see through, And her blouse (need I add?) is the famed Peek-a-boo! She is wholly devoid of discretion, She is utterly wanting in tact, She’s a gossip by trade and profession, And she much prefers fiction to fact. She is seldom veracious, and always unkind, And she moves to and fro with the speed of the wind. She resembles the men who (’tis fabled) Tumble into the Packingtown vats, Who are boiled there, and bottled, and labelled For the tables of true democrats: Pickled souls who are canned for the public to buy, And (like her) have a finger in every pie! With a step that is silent and stealthy, Or an earsplitting clamor and noise, She disturbs the repose of the wealthy, Or the peace which the pauper enjoys. And, however securely the doors may be shut, She can always gain access to palace or hut. Where the spinsters at tea are collected, Her arrival is hailed with delight; She is welcomed, adored, and respected In each newspaper office at night; For her presence imprints an original seal On an otherwise commonplace journal or meal. She has nothing in common with Virtue, And with Truth she was never allied; If she hasn’t yet managed to hurt you, It can’t be from not having tried! For the poison of adders is under her tongue, And you’re lucky indeed, if you’ve never been stung. Are you statesman, or author, or artist, With a perfectly blameless career? Are your talents and wits of the smartest, And your conscience abnormally clear? “He’s a saint!” says Dame Rumor, and smiles like the Sphinx. “He’s a hero!” (She adds:) “What a pity he drinks!” Gentle Reader, keep clear of her clutches! O beware of her voice, I entreat! Be you journalist, dowager duchess, Or just merely the Man in the Street. And I beg of you not to encourage a jade Who, if once she is started, can never be stayed. “Where the spinsters at tea are collected, |
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