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232 Who am I, that I am not on trial, or in prison? Me, ruthless and devilish as any, that my wrists are
 * not chained with iron, or my ankles with iron?

You prostitutes flaunting over the trottoirs, or obscene
 * in your rooms,

Who am I, that I should call you more obscene than
 * myself?

O culpable! O traitor! O I acknowledge—I exposé! (O admirers! praise not me! compliment not me! you
 * make me wince,

I see what you do not—I know what you do not;) Inside these breast-bones I lie smutch'd and choked, Beneath this face that appears so impassive, hell's
 * tides continually run,

Lusts and wickedness are acceptable to me, I walk with delinquents with passionate love, I feel I am of them—I belong to those convicts and
 * prostitutes myself,

And henceforth I will not deny them—for how can I
 * deny myself?