Philadelphian Poet's Words, After The Triennial Convention Divided; Circa 1845.

My foe, a bully on our smooth playground,

believes his shallowness must be profound.

He chafes that I have praised the splendid work

of other poets in my poetry;

more proof of his sad inadequacy,

which, in him, turns to bitter perfidy.

By God, he never will enjoy my praise:
I promise this through the last of my days.

I am a Yank, but he is just a jerk---

off which brings him to shrill impotency.



Author's Notes/Comments: 

I apologize for the pun in contemporary language in this historically oriented poem.

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