FIERCELY, methinks, will he rage in his heart and loud will he bellow, When, as he glances aside, he espies this acid-tongued fellow Whetting his tusks. Then in furious frenzy of soul Round and round his eyes will roll. O what a fight! How his phrases will charge, helm a glancing, plume waving, Down on the pin-pricking ranks of his foe, the splinter-and-shaving Troops that engage with poetic genius free, Prancing phraseology! Here 'neath a crest all his own, the mane on his shaggy neck curling, Brows drawn down in a terrible frown, he is roaring and whirling Riveted phrases, and baulk upon baulk follows fast, Tossed on the titanic blast. Here the smooth tongue uncoiling, the prattler, all blemishes tracing Sets with a shake of their bridle the steeds of her jealousy racing, Feasts on the phrases, and nibbles and nibbles to naught All the other's lungs have wrought. |