Portrait of a Jackal


For love of ease he plays the knave;
He spits upon his father’s grave.
Yea, for his masters’ sport his tongue
Befouls the race from which he sprung,
While eager, oily, smooth and kempt,
He eats the crumbs of their contempt.
A beggar, lacking love and art,
He sells his malice on the mart;
He casts a eunuch’s jaundiced eyes
Upon the Prophet’s Paradise,
And when his country calls for men,
Can only give a — poison pen.
His brave words hide a slacker’s heart,
Informer, sneak, he chose his part,
A jackal — ever on the run —
Save when the odds are ten to one!

Previous | Top | Issue 12, December 1917


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