INDICTED

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!