Incubus

This gnome, this charming horror,
That sits Apollo-like upon my lusty soul;
Call him Conscience,
Wryly grinning,
Mirthful as a martinet
In parody of joy,
He slits the envelope and stirs between
A foil to mind and spirit,
Still lustful, lascivious, gross, unkind,
But never lost in dirt or callous suffering;
For give this gruesome little wart of sin his due
The college-taught proprieties were born of him
And tie-clad stalwarts know his school;
Refinement, bred of ease, has coached his whim.

mcmlx