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Has it ever before been heard of, that the forger Of steel bracelets for the globe Should smoke his rotten tobacco as importantly As the officer used to clink his stirrups?

You ask—And then? And then dancing centuries. We shall knock at all doors And no one will say: Goddamyou, get out!

We! We! We are everywhere: Before the footlights, in the center of the stage, Not softy lyricists, But flaming buffoons.

Pile rubbish, all the rubbish in a heap, And like Savonarola, to the sound of hymns, Into the fire with it. . . . Whom should we fear? When the mundiculi of puny souls have become—worlds.

Every day of ours is a new chapter in the Bible. Every page will be great to thousands of generations. We are those about whom they will say: The lucky ones lived in 1917. And you are still shouting: They perish! You are still whimpering lavishly. Dunderheads! Isn't yesterday crushed, like a dove By a motor Emerging madly from the garage?