Dear Bruner, once we had a little talk
( That is to say,‘ twas I did all the talking )
About the manner of your moral walk:
How devious the trail you made in stalking,
On level ground, your law-protected game —
“Another's Dollar” is, I think, its name.
Your crooked course more recently is not
So blamable; for, truly, you have stumbled
On evil days; and‘ tis your luckless lot
To traverse spaces ( with a spirit humbled,
Contrite, dejected and divinely sad )
Where,‘ tis confessed, the walking's rather bad.
Jordan, the song says, is a road ( I thought
It was a river ) that is hard to travel;
And Dublin, if you'd find it, must be sought
Along a highway with more rocks than gravel.
In difficulty neither can compete
With that wherein you navigate your feet.
As once George Gorham said of Pixley, so
I say of you: “The prison yawns before you,
The turnkey stalks behind!” Now will you go?
Or lag, and let that functionary floor you?
To change the metaphor — you seem to be
Between Judge Wallace and the deep, deep sea!