The poet with his teeming song,
The wise his deep-delved lore,
The maiden with her tender flesh,
The strong his sturdy store;
Each yielded all he had to give,
No harlot could do more.
Is there not one to share with me
The shame and wrath I own,
Is there not one to curse that Thing
Or pick up stones to stone—
To rend and wreck and raze to earth;
Or do I stand alone?
Raise high the swine-like incubus,
Obediently bow!
Shout down the voice of bold dissent
And wreath that brazen brow.
So blaze the banners, ring the bells—
Apotheosis now!
Go, grovel for the shoddy goods
And plod and plot and plan,
And if you win the paltry prize
Go prize it if you can,
But I would hurl it in your face
To hold myself a man!
I will not bow with that mad horde
And passively obey.
I will not think their sordid thoughts,
Nor say the things they say,
Nor wear their shameful liveries,
Nor branded be as they.
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