Chicago May

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?