Page:Betelguese, a trip through hell.djvu/60

52 Now to a churning gyre's pool

We haste to see a weird show,

Where Lordly Helms in vials squirm,

Each mongrel scoundrel's olpe of wine! A Morgan gambles with a ghoul,

A Belmont writhes with sizzling woe,

A Rockefeller leads each worm,

Another's known as T. F. Ryan.

The browless whelp of oily fame

Is made to dig the burning soil,

The sheckles of a Pierpont king,

Secures no prestige in this Inn.

The gambling ghost whose middle name

Is "Fortune", spins within the swirl

Of waters cold and oceans' ring,

Condemned, forsaken for his sin.

On earth they plunder'd, robbed and stole

From month to month and year to year;

There Franchise-stealers cracked with leers

As Plebeians stung, groaned with might.

Now one and all damn'd on this shoal