But an Editor's ever a man of resource,
He is never tied down to one definite course:
He shrank not a shrink nor waver'd a wave,
He blank not a blink nor quaver'd a quave;
But, pointing upstairs as he turn'd to the door,
Said "Editor's room number two second floor."
Like a lion let loose on his innocent prey,
Strode the Alderman upstairs that sorrowful day:
Like a tiger impatiently waiting his foe,
The captain was pacing the room to and fro
When the Alderman enter'd--but here draw a veil,
There is much to be sad for and much to bewail.
Whoever began it, or ended the fray,
All they found in the room when they swept it next day,
Was a large pile of fragments beyond all identity
(Monument sad to the conflict's intensity).
And the analyst said whom the coroner quested,
The whole of the heap he had carefully tested,
And all he could find in his search analytic
(But tables and chairs and such things parenthetic),
He wore as he turned, white, black, blue, green, and purple,
Was one stone of chutney and two stone of turtle.
And the Editor throve, as all editors should
Who devote all their thought to the popular good:
For the paper containing this little affair,
Ran to many editions and sold everywhere.
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