In Mount Olympus we have heard a noise and crying As swine that in deep agony are dying, A voice of tom-cats wailing, A never failing Thud as of rolling logs: A chattering like frogs, And all this noise, unceasing, thunderous, Making a horrible fuss, Cries out upon my name. Oh, what am I, the Muse and giver of Fame, So to be mocked and humbled by this use? I--I, the Muse! (_Enter Spirit of Modern Poetry, a lady with bobbed hair, clad lightly in horn glasses and a sex-complex._) SPIRIT OF MODERN POETRY You're behind the times; quite narrow, Don't you want Culture for the masses? MUSE No; I am Greek; we never did. Besides, it _isn't_ culture. CHORUS OF ELDERLY LADIES WHO APPRECIATE POETRY, (_trotting by two by two on their way to a lecture, pause._) Oh, how narrow! Oh, how shocking! She's no Muse! She must be mocking! MUSE (_sternly, having lost her temper by this time_) I am a goddess. Trifle not with me. ELDERLY LADIES (_with resolute tolerance_) She _looks_ like a pupil of Isadora Duncan, But she says she's a goddess; what folly we'd be sunk in To believe a word she says; she needs broad'ning, we conjecture-- My dear, come with us to Miss Rittenhouse's lecture! MUSE (_lifting her arms angrily_) Até, my sister! ATÉ, (_behind the scenes_) I come! (_Enter from one side, Band of Poets--very large--with lyres and wreaths put on over their regular clothes. From the other side, a chorus of Poetry Critics. At their end steals Até, Goddess of Discord, disguised as a Critic by means of horn glasses and a Cane. The Poets do not see her--or anything but themselves, indeed. They sing obliviously_) My maiden aunt in Keokuk She writes free verse like anything; My great-grandmother is in luck, She's sold her three-piece work on Spring; My mother does Poetic Plays, My dad does rhymes while signing checks, And my flapper sister--we wouldn't have missed her-- She's writing an epic on Sin and Sex-- The world's as perfect as it can be, Everybody writes Poetry! CHORUS OF CRITICS, (_chanting yet more loudly:_) The world's not _quite_ as perfect as it yet might be, Excepting for our brother-critics' poetry! (_The Spirit of Discord now creeps softly out from among the Critics._) SPIRIT OF DISCORD Rash poets, think what you would do-- There's nobody left you can read it to! POETS (_aghast_) We never thought of that! An audience, 'tis flat, Is our most pressing need, To listen to our screed; (_Each turns to his neighbor_) Base scribbler, get thee hence Or be my audience! Semi-chorus: We want to write ourselves! We'll not! Semi-chorus: But what _you_ write is merely rot! Hush up and let _me_ read My great, eternal screed! ATÉ (_stealthily_) Ha, ha!