To visit the vision in broken

English of peoples who live on corn,

Nuts and a broad-leaved prairie grass

In houses of brick and mud with their beasts of burden and children

Is to be, as always, tricked.

There are no primitive peoples.

When the guide to the old part of town

Points to the son of the son

Of the father of fathers, Jarvis

(Discoverer of the wheel),

He has no choice but to choose as always, always

A native of Springfield.

None of the gnarled old crones

In flaxen bags in Gaza

But has danced the jellyroll blues

In Springfield.

None of the brittle bones

In the catacombs

But are my cousin Jonathan

Of Springfield.

There are no primitive peoples. All old crockery

Stems from the common culture where converge,

At Springfield,

The Nile, The Tigris and The Ganges.