Mr. Pope of small dimension
Was a giant against pretension
Laced the pompous and the rich
With an epigrammatic switch
Roasted peacocks every season
On the spit of twinkling reason
Always witty, seldom jolly
Ever poised to skewer folly
Saw every foible of mere men
As fit fodder for his pen
Yet did not seem to think it odd
To carp at everyone but God.