Will the dunces think of sticks and stones And holler psalms of broken bones When the cataclysms to be wrought Is on all our race of dunces brought? Itβs not the bash of holy fail But itβs the lifting of the veil
It befits, at length, the mortal brood Which believes, as will, for sake of solitude Stamping hooves with sing-song hearts Scoffs and sighs through which joy darts Is not the worth of regal crowns Cast aside when a gift to clowns?
Is not the great-guard off his rails? Nuanced, the lifting of the veil
And nuance itself, a pearl before Swine who rut, in a squealing abhor The smoothness of it, the spotless gleam Or the idea of perfect the perfect deem? All the while, swines they wail That the green is fake in the saintly vale
For rutting they seem not be concerned, Amid brazen wiles of burning and yearned A heedless pit tails a brambled row, For the virile seeds of what the puerile grow And what of the openness of the seeds? For a vine that tangles, or one that feeds?