One who approaches Greatness on his belly so that he may not be commanded to turn and be kicked.  He is sometimes an editor.    As the lean leech, its victim found, is pleased    To fix itself upon a part diseased    Till, its black hide distended with bad blood,    It drops to die of surfeit in the mud,    So the base sycophant with joy descries    His neighbor's weak spot and his mouth applies,    Gorges and prospers like the leech, although,    Unlike that reptile, he will not let go.    Gelasma, if it paid you to devote    Your talent to the service of a goat,    Showing by forceful logic that its beard    Is more than Aaron's fit to be revered;    If to the task of honoring its smell    Profit had prompted you, and love as well,    The world would benefit at last by you    And wealthy malefactors weep anew --    Your favor for a moment's space denied    And to the nobler object turned aside.    Is't not enough that thrifty millionaires    Who loot in freight and spoliate in fares,    Or, cursed with consciences that bid them fly    To safer villainies of darker dye,    Forswearing robbery and fain, instead,    To steal (they call it "cornering") our bread    May see you groveling their boots to lick    And begging for the favor of a kick?    Still must you follow to the bitter end    Your sycophantic disposition's trend,    And in your eagerness to please the rich    Hunt hungry sinners to their final ditch?    In Morgan's praise you smite the sounding wire,    And sing hosannas to great Havemeyher!    What's Satan done that him you should eschew?    He too is reeking rich -- deducting _you_.