Let us deride the smugness of 'The Times': GUFFAW!
So much for the gagged reviewers,
It will pay them when the worms are wriggling in their
vitals;
These are they who objected to newness,
Here are their tomb-stones.
They supported the gag and the ring:
A little BLACK Box contains them.
So shall you be also,
You slut-bellied obstructionist,
You sworn foe to free speech and good letters,
You fungus, you continuous gangrene.

Come, let us on with the new deal,
Let us be done with pandars and jobbery,
Let us spit upon those who pat the big-bellies for profit,
Let us go out in the air a bit.

Or perhaps I will die at thirty?
Perhaps you will have the pleasure of defiling my
pauper's grave;
I wish you joy, I proffer you all my assistance.
It has been your habit for long
to do away with good writers,
You either drive them mad, or else you blink at their
suicides,
Or else you condone their drugs,
and talk of insanity and genius,
But I will not go mad to please you,
I will not flatter you with an early death,
Oh, no, I will stick it out,
Feel your hates wriggling about my feet
As a pleasant tickle,
to be observed with derision,
Though many move with suspicion,
Afraid to say that they hate you;
The taste of my boot ?
Here is the taste of my boot,
Caress it,
lick off the blacking.