The mad girl with the staring eyes and long white
Hooked in the stones of the wall,
The storm-wrack hair and screeching mouth: does it matter,
Cassandra,
Whether the people
Your bitter fountain?
Truly men hate the truth, they'd
Meet a tiger on the road.
Therefore the poets honey their truth with lying; but religion—Vendors and political
Pour from the barrel, new lies on the old, and are praised for
Wisdom.
Poor bitch be wise.
No: you'll still mumble in a corner a crust of truth, to
And gods disgusting—you and I,
Cassandra.
