Old Nick
To whom should the Kings of these Motley' bow?
And let thier weighted heads hang over their sins;
thier kind words of culling, Are all deeds-benign.
For our image may eclipse thier souls, and no moral
should burden them; these with glad ideals. These
men who should go on hiding thier Saddest orisons,
and lynch all thier Jesters in the Courts.
These who are dreary; whose Boots-tread heavy as
their vacant Souls– and shall laugh down each droll
barrel at the Sins of others, as so that they will be empty
too. -Now that all men are devils men, and the King
rests on the brow, and the sky brings no water for his
Tormented passions– and he will make everyone else
a Godless tyrant too, in these foul fancy.
All the little-lads will throw themsleves down parched
furrows, and ask why thier Souls starved? And each
will bleet thier hollow tunes– like tired Ammonia poured
feverish into our hands, down this mad Charnel house;
down all our knotted-minds, and over our hearts. Come–
Try along all our amazements here– where the Sun has
fallen half-way down a ditch, and burns all of us who
live there.