You can sing of the Spanish Angels
And the Death of Little Nell
You can glamorize your Julia Moore,
The Poetess from Hell!
You can carp and whine and bitch and moan
When McGonagle's raised again;
But there's none will scar you to the bone
As when Little Hawk holds the pen.

This Canuck herbivore strange and meek
With locks like a river of brown
And a threaded tap into Heaven's seat
Where the effluvia can drip down;
He will tell you of actors with balding heads,
Or sing of the Manticore;
And the words that chill the strongest home-wife
Are "Little Hawk's at the door!"

So prepare to give over your hope for truth
And your quest for Beauty yet!
For the legions of Mediocre Hell
Are what you are going to get;
And ask not for wisdom, or insight fair,
For the banal, the trite are your lot
Succumb to the draw of the lowest and worse
When Little Hawk calls the shot.

Aloyisius Gawaine de la Benitié
A Wind From the Old Island
New York, 1907