Lines to G. B. Shaw

Oh, G.B.S., oh, G.B.S.,You lousy son of a bitch,You lift your yawp across the worldLike a bullfrog in a ditch.
I would that by foliage whichYour scholarly phizz thatchesTied to a smoking stake you wereBy a tribe of wild Apaches
You could deride them in that styleOf which you're so enamored,While someone with a tomahawkYour lordly cranium hammered.
And several thousand dancing braves,The more the merrier,Were sticking Spanish Daggers inYour antequate posterior.

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