Vital spark of heav`nly flame ! Quit, oh quit this mortal frame: Trembling, hoping, ling`ring, flying, Oh the pain, the bliss of dying !

As yet a child,
nor yet a fool to fame;
I lisped in numbers,
for the numbers came.

To the politicians in Moss,
A bench for you to sit on...

Old politicians chew on wisdom past,
And totter on in business to the last.

Statesman,  yet friend to Truth ! of soul sincere,
In action faithful, and in hon our clear;
Who broke no promise, served no private end,
Who gained no title, and who lost no friend.
Is it possible ? ...
Not in Moss.