O master-race, blest with superlative parts!
You are not only peerless in science and arts;
But you top the whole world in mechanical skill,
And of this the tip-top is your Memminger's mill.
Not a soul threw a sneer on Fourdrinier's brags,
When he'd got his machine, fed at one end with rags,
At the other to pour out, in wonderful style,
A paper-flood flowing on mile after mile.
But whereas the Gaul grinds his rags into cash,
The Memminger grandly converts his to trash
So perfect, a ton of it doesn't begin
To pay for a tithe of the rags he dumps in!
Yet, month after month, the blind Samson grinds on,
From day-peep to sunset, from sunset to dawn;
Sublimely unmoved, though all Dixie assert
Each hour yields but sequence of dirtier dirt.
O! boss of the grand rags-and-lampblack concern!
By far the best course you can hit on to learn
What's the matter the outcome's so monstrously mean,
Is—to run yourself bodily through the machine!
For, though you may fail the Rag-Imp to discover,
You'll gain the great blessing of being "ground over,"
Or ground to dead dust—which were luckier still
For the dupes of your infinite Shinplaster Mill!