Look at us to-day. They say to me, see what a town we have: The men at work, smoke coming from the chimneys, The banks full up of money, business good, The workmen sober, going home at night, No rowdy barkers and no bands a-playing, No drinking and no gaming and no vice. No marriages contracted to be broken. Look how LeRoy is quiet, sane and clean! And I reply, you like the stir of work, But not the stir of play; your chimneys smoke, Your banks have money. Let me look behind The door that closes on your man at home, The wife and children there, what shall I find? A sick man looks to health as it were all, But when the fever leaves him and he feels The store of strength in muscles slumbering And waiting to be used, then something else Than health is needful, he must have a way To voice the life within him, and he wonders Why health seemed so desirable before, And all sufficient to him. Take this girl: Why do you marvel that she rode at night With any man who came along? Good God, If I were born a woman and they put me In a theocracy, hogocracy, I'd do the first thing that came in my mind To give my soul expression. Don't you think You're something of a bully and a coward To ask such model living from this girl When you, my grunting hogos, run the land And bring us scandals like the times of Grant, And poisoned beef sold to the soldier boys, When we were warring Spain, and all this stuff Concerning loot and plunder, malversation, That riots in your cities, printed daily? I roll the panoramic story out To Washington the great--what do I see? It's tangle foot, the sticky smear is dry; But I can find wings, legs and heads, remember How little flies and big were buzzing once Of God and duty, country, virtue, faith; And beating wings, already gummed with sweet, Until their little bellies touched the glue, They sought to fill their bellies with--at last Long silence, which is history, scroll rolled up And spoken of in sacred whispers. Well, I'm glad that Elenor Murray had her fling, If that be really true. I understand What drove her to the war. I think she knew Too much to marry, settle down and live Under the rule of Demos or of Hogos. I wish we had a dozen Elenor Murrays In every village in this land of Demos To down Theocracy, which is just as bad As Prussianism, is no different From Prussianism. And I fear but this As fruitage of the war: that men and women Will have burnt on their souls the words ceramic That war's the thing, and this theocracy, Where generous outlets for the soul are stopped Will keep the words in mind. When boredom comes, And grows intolerable, you'll see the land Go forth to war to get a thrill and live-- Unless we work for freedom, for delight And self-expression. * * * * *