When a boy I was wrenched in a gin hidden in a garden of roses: thus am I lame.
Later was slugged on the head by the Father of Lies—the Ideal:
But I laughed and hallooed, “Come, To-morrow!”
I have been bushwhacked by women, gnawed to the bone by a great ancient lust:
All things I touched turned slime-green and black-hideous thoughts played ’round my night-pillow like rats ’round the new-dead:
But I laughed and hallooed, “Come, To-morrow!”
Then I donned horns and tail and cried, “Behold! I am Lucifer!”
So they stoned me till I looked like a shambles:
But I laughed and hallooed, “Come, To-morrow!”
I bought from a drab a filthy old handkerchief, exhibited it as the Veil of Isis.
The popes of philosophy bowed down to me and mumbled “Eureka!”
But I laughed (for I knew) and hallooed, “Come, To-morrow!”
Well, here am I now, a butt-end, awaiting translation.
The world I have found a small box with endless false bottoms;
I have come to the tomb, a little clay box which, too, is false bottomed:
I call into it, laugh and halloo, “Come, TO-MOR-ROW!”