Or a whisky soaked girl to a whisky soaked king.
I woke. She had turned to a ravening thing
On the table -- a buzzard with leperous head.
She tore up my rhymes and my drawings. She said:
"I am your own cheap bankrupt soul.
Will you die for the nations, making them whole?
We joy in the swamp and here we are gay.
WILL YOU BRING YOUR FINE PEACE TO THE NATIONS TODAY?"




"This, My Song, Is Made for Kerensky"

(Being a Chant of the American Soap-Box and the Russian Revolution.)



O market square, O slattern place,
Is glory in your slack disgrace?
Plump quack doctors sell their pills,
Gentle grafters sell brass watches,
Silly anarchists yell their ills.
Shall we be as weird as these?
In the breezes nod and wheeze?

Heaven's mass is sung,
Tomorrow's mass is sung
In a spirit tongue
By wind and dust and birds,