Tactless Tactics
Were I a burglar in the dock With every chance of doing time, With Justice sitting like a rock To hear a record black with crime; If my conviction seemed a cert, Yet, by a show of late repentance, I thought I might, with luck, avert A simply crushing sentence;— I should adopt, by use of art, A pensive air of new-born grace, In hope to melt the Bench's heart And mollify its awful face; I should not go and run amok, Nor in a fit of senseless fury Punch the judicial nose or chuck An inkpot at the jury. So with the Hun: you might assume He would exert his homely wits To mitigate the heavy doom That else would break him all to bits; Yet he behaves as one possessed, Rampaging like a bull of Bashan, Which, as I think, is not the best Means of conciliation. For when the wild beast, held and bound, Ceases to plunge and rave and snort, The Bench, I hope, will pass some sound Remarks on this contempt of court; The plea for mercy, urged too late, Should prove a negligible cipher, And when the sentence seals his fate He'll get at least a lifer.
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