Not the tragic strings

Of the inner heart

Will I pull taut

To be played upon by every fool musician

The flimsy-souled centres of piety

Seeking a covering of art.

O I must play on the cat-gut

Strings of nonsense

A tango for the Many

Rich-loud with the spent fury of flesh torments.

And I shall not live worn

Down to the foundations

Of uninspired lust—

A beggar of husk-wild corn …

In the Enclosure rare passions

Stab through the ascetic crust.