Soon onto the clean streets, body at a time,
This place will squeeze out all your sloppy lard,
And I unlocked for you so much verse confined,
I—of priceless words the waster and prodigal.
Take you, mister, your moustache has cabbage
From soup you couldn’t even eat up, cloyed;
Take you, madam, white from thick maquillage,
Your oyster face looks from the shell of clog.
All of you on the butterfly heart of a verser
Will mount, filthy, caring of galoshes or not a bit,
The frenzied crowd will begin to jostle,
The centi-head louse, bristled, will raise its feet.
And if today I, lowbred and bully,
Won’t feel like grimacing for you—after all,
I’ll burst with laughter and spit with glee,
Spit straight in your face,
I—of priceless words the waster and prodigal.