When the Leaves Come Out/Salaam, you Scissorbills
SALAAM, YOU SCISSORBILLS
Serene, complacent, satisfied;
Content with things that be—
The paragon of paltriness
Upraised for all to see.
With loving pride he cherishes
His Mediocrity!
The smirking, ass-like multitudes
Cringe down at his command.
With wagging ears and blinded eyes
They do not understand.
With pride they show each shackled wrist
And on each brow the brand.
The young, the old, the great, the small
Give homage—all supine.
Fond parents bring their children there
As to some holy shrine.
And every one the Beast transforms
From Human into swine!
Well praised are they—rewarded well—
Who on their shoulders bore
The gilded Thing that all the mob
Fawned in the dust before,
And each that did obeisance therez
Was naked like a whore.
The poet with his teeming song,
The wise his deep-delved lore,
The maiden with her tender flesh,
The strong his sturdy store;
Each yielded all he had to give,
No harlot could do more.
Is there not one to share with me
The shame and wrath I own,
Is there not one to curse that Thing
Or pick up stones to stone—
To rend and wreck and raze to earth;
Or do I stand alone?
Raise high the swine-like incubus,
Obediently bow!
Shout down the voice of bold dissent
And wreath that brazen brow.
So blaze the banners, ring the bells—
Apotheosis now!
Go, grovel for the shoddy goods
And plod and plot and plan,
And if you win the paltry prize
Go prize it if you can,
But I would hurl it in your face
To hold myself a man!
I will not bow with that mad horde
And passively obey.
I will not think their sordid thoughts,
Nor say the things they say,
Nor wear their shameful liveries,
Nor branded be as they.
Nor can they bend me to their will
Though black their numbers swell,
Nor bribe with hopes of paradise
Nor force with fears of hell;
Me they may break, but never bend—
I live but to rebel.
I go my way rejoicingly,
I, outcast, spurned and low;
But undreamed worlds may come to birth
From seeds that I may sow,
And if there's pain within my heart
Those fools shall never know.
My kind but scorn your dull "success"—
Your subtle ways to "win,"
We eat our hearts in solitude
Or sear our souls with "sin";
Yet we are better men than you
Who fit so smugly in.
Then let me stand back silently,
The pageant passes by,
And live my life with "outcasts"
Whom your hands would crucify,
And laugh with mirth to see the mob
Do homage to a Lie!
