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 BRUNO Forgive the intrusion, fellows --Masters, rather. I well understand the gravity of my trespass. Purge us! you say. Ennoble, entertain us! Give us Drama, Culture and Form. Masters! What a task! I'll dance! But what have you left With which to purge you, ennoble, entertain you? An empire of dregs, froth and scum Is what remains, by your grace, of my dominion. Dregs, froth and scum from which to spin pure form? You give me radishes, onions and garlic and let me be the cook of your stew, And what, Masters? You want the stew to taste like stew, and not like radishes, onions and garlic? You say the stew is foul if you can taste the radishes? You call it an abomination? Your what? Esthetic tracts? They're clogged for weeks from such a fare? Rancid red radishes, you say? Putrid preparation? Ah! You want a stew that transcends its components, The components unidentifiable, The radishes hidden, disguised. The stew must be general, digestible as Pure Form. You must be able to deny the radishes. Impossible conditions! You would have me conduct you through soot, grime and dust And you'll demand, in the end, your purity? Your faces clean, your suits unspotted, your tracts without a blemish? Art, you demand. Beauty. With dregs, froth and scum to Purge, Ennoble, Entertain. I hedge, you say? You fear I'll befoul your silent sleep: have you wake in black morning hours, your mouths full of pungent radishes, walls reeking of garlic, itching red lumps on your skin, and drink, deodorize and scratch, yet the taste, stench and itch remain engraved on your tongues, walls and skin--forever.