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256 I’m sick of General Jackson’s toast,
 * Canals are naught to me:

Nor do I care who rules the roast,
 * Clinton—or John Targee:

No stock in any Bank I own,
 * I fear no Lottery shark,

And if the Battery were gone,
 * I’d ramble in the Park.

Let gilded Guardsmen4 shake their toes,
 * Let Altorf5 please the pit,

Let Mister Hawkins blow his nose
 * And Spooner6 publish it:

Insolvent laws let Marshall7 break,
 * Let dying Baldwin cavil;

And let Tenth-Ward Electors shake
 * Committees to the devil.

In vain—for like a cruel cat
 * That sucks a child to death,

Or like the Madagascar bat
 * Who poisons with his breath,

The fiend—the fiend is on me still;
 * Come, doctor, here’s your pay—

What potion, lotion, plaster, pill,
 * Will drive the beast away?

D.