Present to me your whispered half-truths,
your lies, slanderous and sticky,
like honey from a comb,
and I will suckle.
No bosom sweeter,
more rosy blushed,
with commiserated vapidity
than that for which the clamoring throng
Hold fast, you People.
Cast a furtive eye upon
the chainless bounds
and with a measured thumping
your toil shall be yours to nurture.
Dig not your ragged-nail, sun-cracked
hands into that loam,
laid out for you in thick carpeted runs
by gold plated men.
Cease your throaty chewing of that black-copper tang
that cloaks all nascent aspiration.
Stand up, you Man.
Raise your hoary pate above that far horizon
and tip your hat to the trembling Dawn.
Tread forward, far off from that
pallid bosom of iniquity.