THE SWORD OF SONG 
24
He taught me A, he taught me B, 
He stopped my baccy17 and my tea. 
He taught me Y, he taught me Z, 
He made strange noises in my head. 
He taught me that, he taught me this, 
He spoke of knowledge, life, and bliss. 
He taught me this, he taught me that, 
He grew me mangoes in his hat18  
I brought him corn : he made good grist of it :— 
And here, my Christian friend, ’s the gist of it ! 
First, here’s philosophy’s despair 
The cynic scorn of self.  I think 
At times the search is worth no worry, 
And hasten earthward in a hurry, 
Close spirit’s eyes, or bid them blink, 
Go back to Swinburne’s19 counsel rare,  
Kissing the universe its rod, 
As thus he sings “For this is God ; 
Be man with might, at any rate, 
In strength of spirit growing straight 
And life as light a-lving out !” 
So Swinburne doth sublimely state, 
And he is right beyond a doubt. 
So, I’m a poet or a rhymer ; 
A mountaineer or mountain climber. 
So much for Crowley’s vital primer.  
The inward life of soul and heart, 
That is a thing occult, apart : 
But yet his metier or his kismet 
As much as these you have of his met. 
So—you be butcher ; you be baker ; 
You, Plymouth Brother, and you, Quaker ; 
You, Mountebank, you, corset-maker :— 
While for you, my big beauty,20 (Chicago packs pork) 
I’ll teach you the trick to be hen-of-the-walk. 
Shrick a music-hall song with a double ong-tong ! 
Dance a sprightly can-can at Paree or Bolong ! 
Or the dance of Algiers—try your stomach at that ! 
It’s quite in your line, and would bring down your fat. 
You’ve a very fine voice—could you only control it !  
And an emerald ring—and I know where you stole it ! 
But for goodness sake give up attemptiing Brünnhilde; 
Try a boarding-house cook, or a coster’s Matilda ! 
75
80
85
90
95
100
105
110
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
The philo-
sophical im-
passe.  Practi- 
cal advice.  
Advice to poet’s 
fat friend.