A. C. Stewart
To formulate a force that makes an infant s toy of
Hell
I m the Shell, The Monstrous Shell !
I m the Shell,
The unsung Shell ! He flounders in futility who apes my thunderous swell.
I have sunk the Poet s drone
To a maudlin monotone ; The Tornadoes of my Threnodies belong to me alone
Stranded in Conception s storm, Thither by the Tempest blown,
Huddled close his shaken form,
He sits crouching like a crone, While explosive Devastation peals its deafening cyclone,
And the Vendors cheap of lies
Stammer in a dazed surprise, Whelmed in dark ferocious horrors, deeper than they
dared devise,
Glutted, choked with red atrocities up to their foolish
eyes
In the blood and murder zone,
I am single and alone ; Imagination faints, and fails to follow where I ve flown.
I am the Shell!
The monstrous Shell Degeneracy s Nightmare never hatched a parallel
To me, the Shell !
I m the High Explosive Shell,
The deafening Shell! My volcanic diapason makes a drowsy hum of hell ;
As I crash across the sky
Charnel houses multiply,
And, out of human semblance blown, the nameless
thousands lie,
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