"I give the yawp
Of piety and pelf(Who now reads Herrick?)"And contradict
No matter, the verse is large.
My five-and-ten cent shelf"The continent is: my
Bigger than Greece.
The
Of Me exceeds its marge"Myself the old
With wind and water wild(Hell with the privy lock):"I have no woman child;
My son, alone, beguiled"By my
In priggery to
My blind posterity . . ."-These words, at dawn of
In the sleep-awakened mind,
I made Walt Whitman say:
Wherefore I and my
Wear meekly in the faceA pale honeydew
Of rotten-sweet grace;
Ungracefully
Great-aunts hanged in
We are: mildly
Dog bones in a
Saved in the attic. . . .
Hating king and monk,
The classes and the mass,
We chartered an old junk(Like Jesus on his ass)Unto the smutty
And smirking sassafras.
In bulled Europa's
We love our land
All night we raped her-torn,
Blue grass and glade.
Jackdaws,
Buzzards and crows the
Love with prurient claws;
So may I cunning my
To clip the
From the land or quicksand;
For unto us God
To gloze with iron
The dozing continent-The fallow graves,
Full of limp fish,
Terrains, fields and
Through which we crawl, and call.
