you, land of the Cluett Shirt Boston Garter and Spearmint Girl With The Wrigley Eyes(of you land of the Arrow Ide and Earl & Wilson Collars)of you i sing:land of Abraham Lincoln and Lydia E. Pinkham, land above all of Just Add Hot Water And Serve-- from every B. V. D. let freedom ring amen. i do however protest, anent the un -spontaneous and otherwise scented merde which greets one (Everywhere Why) as divine poesy per that and this radically defunct periodical. i would suggest that certain ideas gestures rhymes, like Gillette Razor Blades having been used and reused to the mystical moment of dullness emphatically are Not To Be Resharpened. (Case in point if we are to believe these gently O sweetly melancholy trillers amid the thrillers these crepuscular violinists among my and your skyscrapers--Helen&Cleopatra were Just Too Lovely, The Snail’s On The Thorn enter Morn and God’s In His andsoforth do you get me? (according to such supposedly indigenous throstles Art is O World O Life a formula:example, Turn Your Shirttails Into Drawers and If It Isn’t An Eastman It Isn’t A Kodak therefore my friends let us now sing each and all fortissimo A- mer i ca, I love, You. And there’re a hun-dred-mil-lion-oth-ers, like all of you successfully if delicately gelded(or spaded) gentlemen(and ladies)--pretty littleliverpill- hearted-Nujolneeding-There’s-A-Reason americans(who tensetendoned and with upward vacant eyes, painfully perpetually crouched, quivering, upon the sternly allotted sandpile --how silently emit a tiny violetflavoured nuisance:Odor? ono. comes out like a ribbon lies flat on the brush III curtains part) the peacockappareled prodigy of Flo’’s midnight Frolic dolores small in the head keen chassised like a Rolls Royce swoops smoothly outward(amid tinkling-cheering-hammering tables) while softly along Kirkland Street the infantile ghost of Professor Royce rolls remembering that it has for -gotten some- thing ah (my necktie IV workingman with hand so hairy-sturdy you may turn O turn that airy hurdysturdygurdy but when will turn backward O backward Time in your no thy flight and make me a child, a pretty dribbling child, a little child. In thy your ear: en amerique on ne boit que de Jingyale. things are going rather kaka over there, over there. yet we scarcely fare much better-- what’s become of (if you please) all the glory that or which was Greece all the grandja that was dada?