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Poem	It came from the prison this morning, Close-twisted, neat-lettered, and flat; It lies the hall doorway adorning, A very good style of a mat. Prison-made! how the spirit is moven As we think of its story of dread -- What wiles of the wicked are woven And spun in its intricate thread! The letters are new, neat and nobby, Suggesting a masterly hand -- Was it Sikes, who half-murdered the bobby, That put the neat D on the "and"? Some banker found guilty of laches -- It's always called laches, you know -- Had Holt any hand in those Hs? Did Bertrand illumine that O? That T has a look of the gallows, That A's a triangle, I guess; Was it one of the Mount Rennie fellows Who twisted the strands of the S? Was it made by some "highly connected", Who is doing his spell "on his head", Or some wretched woman detected In stealing her children some bread? Does it speak of a bitter repentance For the crime that so easily came? Of the wearisome length of the sentence, Of the sin, and the sorrow, and shame? A mat! I should call it a sermon On sin, to all sinners addressed; It would take a keen judge to determine Whether writer or reader is best. Though the doorway be hard as a pavestone, I rather would use it than that -- I'd as soon wipe my boots on a gravestone, As I would on that Darlinghurst mat!
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