A Comedy of Errors in Seven Acts | Page 5

shrewdness do its perfect
work.
But Seldonskip? I love this hombre not.
He looketh on our
race with proud disdain,
Hence I with poison must sour Francos'
mind,
That he but vileness in this boor shall see.
Some men, I ween, would tread in virtue's
path,
Unless strong passion, born of love
intense,
Should goad them to stretch out a greedy
hand,
And grasp from beauty's bough forbidden
fruit.
For lechery, like plaster o'er the walls,
They have no tolerance within their
souls:
But there are those who will stalk any
game.
Nor like myself, do they beauty demand.
If matters not if but the figure wears
Garb feminine, they'll ready take the
scent,
And like to well trained hounds leave not
the trail
Until the quarry is at length run down.
And this I must apply to Francos' ear,
Thus breeding deep contempt,
clothed with distrust, For him who puketh up a sour disdain,
From
stomach filled with racial prejudice,
That shall his downfall speed,
helped by the spleen, Which pampered youth, fed with a golden spoon,

Must ever show, whene'er its will is crossed.
And thus will I proceed to "cook his
goose,"
Until the flesh shall cleave from off its
bones.
But as it seemeth to my anxious mind,
I read uncertainty in Francos' eye,
"The welfare of thy people" once he

voiced,
Such words make music not unto mine ear.
_(Disdainfully)_
"Thy people!" So it is that Francos speaks.
Ah! little do the workings
of his mind
Discern that we who seek the pow'r to rule
Feel not the
Tao blood coursing our veins.
For it by stain Caucasian is submerged;

Still, we a ladder make of sable backs,
To climb aloft into the
chairs of state.
Exampling thus: "The fittest must survive".
A narrow man, though cast in honest mould,
May mischief work, while conscience
wears a smile.
T o Francos' I would dare not ope my heart,
S o I must feel my way with catlike tread,
And strive with minor things to stuff him
full,
S o points of import shall his mind escape.
_Francos (drawing near):_
I bid thee happy morn, illustrious friend;
A morn portending a most
perfect day.
_Quezox:_
'Tis thus our morn politic brightly
breaks
But storms, by Jove engendered, may e'er
Night
Enfolds her sable mantle for repose,
Wither the budding dreams that