(_Each Poet now draws a Fountain Pen with a bayonet attached, and kills the Poet next him, dying himself immediately from the wound of the Poet on the other side. They fall in neat windrows. There are no Poets left. Meanwhile the Non-Poetry-Writing Public, two in number, who have been shooting crap in a corner, rise up at the sound of the fall, take three paces to the front, and speak:_) What's the use o' poetry, anyhow? _I_ always say, 'if you wanta say anything you can say it a lot easier in prose.' _I_ never wrote no poetry, and I get along fine in the hardware business. CHORUS OF CRITICS AND CULTURE-HOUNDS, (_thrilled:_) Ah, a new Gospel! Let us write Reviews About it! THE SPIRIT OF THE REJECTION SLIP (_entering, and addressing the Editors and Publishers who follow her._) Now I shall pass from you. My task comes to a close. I wing my hallowed way To the Fool-Killer's Paradise, and there for aye Repose. EDITORS AND PUBLISHERS Nay, our great helper, nay! Leave us not yet, our only comforter! We'll need thee still; Folks who write poetry There's naught on earth can kill! (_During this the_ CULTURE-HOUNDS, CRITICS, _etc., have clustered round the_ NON-POETRY-WRITING PUBLIC, _whispering, urging, and pushing. It rises and scratches its head in a flattered way, and finally says:_) B'gosh, I do believe, Now that you speak of it, I could do just as good As any of those there fool dead fellers could! (_The late Non-Poetry-Writing Public are both immediately invested with lyres, and wreaths which they put on over their derby hats._) SEMI-CHORUS OF EDITORS (to Spirit of Rejection Slip) You see? Too late! SEMI-CHORUS OF PUBLISHERS Who shall escape o'ermastering tragic fate? (_They go off and sob in two rows in the corners, while the rest of the Masque, except_ ATÉ, _who looks at them as if she weren't through yet, and the_ MUSE, _form up to do a dance symbolic of One Being Born Every Minute. They sing:_) The Day has come that we adore, The Day we've all been working for; The Day has come, tra la, tra lee! _Everybody_ writes Poetry! THE MUSE (_unnoticed in the background_) Farewell. _Arthur Guiterman_ (He recites with appropriate gestures.) A TREE WITH A BIRD IN IT: A RHYMED REVIEW It seems that Margaret Widdemer Possessed a Tree with a Bird in it, And being human, prone to err, Thought 'twould be pleasant to begin it, Or christen it, as one might say, By asking poets closely herded To come around and spend the day And sing of what the Tree and Bird did. (Poor girl! When next she takes her pen Some bromide critic's sure to say, "Don't dare do serious work again-- This stuff is your true métier!") No sooner said than done; the bards Rush out in quantities surprising, And, overflowing four front yards They carol till the moon is rising;