The Unpardonable Sin by Ambrose Bierce

I reckon that ye never knew, That dandy slugger, Tom Carew. He had a touch as light an’ free As that of any honey-bee; But where it lit there wasn’t much To jestify another touch. O, what a Sunday-school it was To watch him puttin’ up his paws An’ roominate upon their heft⁠— Particular his holy left! Tom was my style⁠—that’s all I say; Some others may be equal gay. What’s come of him? Dunno, I’m sure; He’s dead⁠—which make his fate obscure. I only started in to clear One vital p’int in his career, Which is to say⁠—afore he died He soiled his erming mighty snide. Ye see he took to politics And learnt them statesmen-fellers’ tricks; Pulled wires, wore stovepipe hats, used scent, Just like he was the President; Went to the Legislater; spoke Right out agin the British yoke⁠— But that was right. He let his hair Grow long to qualify for Mayor, An’ once or twice he poked his snoot In Congress like a low galoot! It had to come⁠—no gent can hope To wrastle God agin the rope. Tom went from bad to wuss. Being dead, I s’pose it oughtn’t to be said, For sech inikities as flow From politics ain’t fit to know. But, if you think it’s actin’ white To tell it⁠—Thomas throwed a fight!