[BNP/E3, 78 – 91]

The Song of Dirt

‘Tis a hard winter day, and mournful rain

Splashes and beats at my cold window pane;

The Streets are made of the streamlets

{…}

On such a day the more I feel the curse

Of living in a world made worse and worse

By the black moods of men that do beget

Children {…}

Oh, poor trodden down, whose tears and sweat

Are given to these men, that they may get

From life the hours that to ye they deny.

Alas, alas – the worlds hangs old and dry

The world’s great men are fools

Those unvoluptuous sensualists who {…}

In worn-out wounds the frail and wretched batch

Convention’s minions they that have not might

To see a moment’s naturalness put right

The pain of ages. Those miserable shoes

{…}