Quack! Quack! I am on the rack,
⁠You promised to end my pain;
For a little wealth you'd restore my health
⁠You said; yet here I've lain
For weary weeks and for mournful months,
⁠With pangs that are only known
To the tortured victim of the Quack,
⁠When his faith to the winds has flown.
​Death's shadow falls on my barren walls,
⁠It sleeps on my chamber floor,
Its marrowless bones mock at my groans,
⁠And point to the shining shore,
While a jeering, mocking, ugly grin
⁠Spreads over its fleshless face
At a double triumph—the Quack's success,
⁠And the Quack's supreme disgrace.