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To A Stuffed Shirt

 On the tide you ride head high,
Like a whale 'mid little fishes;
I should envy you as I
Help my wife to wash the dishes.
Yet frock-coat and stove-pipe hat Cannot hide your folds of fat.
You are reckoned a success, And the public praise you win; There's your picture in the Press, Pouchy eyes and triple chin.
Wealth,--of it you fairly stink; Health,--what does your Doctor think? Dignity is phoney stuff.
Who is dignified deep down? Strip the pants off, call the bluff, Common clay are king and clown.
Let a bulging belly be Your best bid for dignity.
Miserable millionaire! For indulgence you must pay.
Yet there's salvation in prayer,-- Down on your fat knees and pray.
Know that with your dying breath There is dignity in death.

Poem by Robert William Service
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