CHICAGO MAY
Or are you the mere brute, speech somehow caught
By monkey mimicry—to mimic thought?
You gabble art and music, mouth the names
Of holy poets; sure a brute it is.
Naught human could so prostitute the aims
Of those high souls compact of light and bliss
And truth. Shall mere anatomy refute?
(The great sow snores)—oh, certainly a brute!
Yet, if a brute, why should I hate you so?
Because you are my own race turned to dung?
‘Things nearest to us plague us most, we know.
‘Why should such “why?” come tripping to my tongue ?
It is love's shrine itself that you pollute;
And that is why I hate you, prostitute
“Make me a baby!" May a cancer gnaw
Your womb! A dropsy make your belly burst!
‘The word of “ baby” in your monstrous maw
‘Makes God a liar, and his Chri
“And am I really all your very own
“And do you love me for myself alone?
“And does my darling love his little girl?”
Of five and forty years, and fifteen stone|
“My love!” “My dovel” “My honey-bee!” “My
pearl!”
O it were better to leave well alone!
Without the words, I might confront the suet ;
With them, how is it possible to do it?