That dens my wayward comrades know
Must also share this cruel lot:
That every haunt of sin must go
To pot.
I who have seen your roaring marts
Engulf our aristocracy,
Our poets, all who love the arts
But me:
I who have watched your bounteous purse
Seduce, I say, the world's elect—
I, in my clear and ringing verse,
Object.
You've stripped existence to the bone;
You see us of all else bereft;
You know quite well that vice alone
Is left.
You claim our every thought and prayer,
Nor do we grudge the sacrifice.
But worms will turn! You've got to spare
Us vice
Objections to Reading
When I was a child of tender years—about five tender years, I think—I felt I couldn't wait any longer: I wanted to read. My parents had gone along supposing that there was no hurry; and they were quite right; there wasn't. But I was impatient. I couldn't wait for people to read to me—they so often were busy, or they insisted on reading the wrong thing, or stopping too soon. I had an immense curiosity to explore the book-universe, and the only way to do it satisfactorily was to do it myself.
Consequently I got hold of a reader, which said, "See the Dog Run!" It added, "The Dog Can Run and Leap," and stated other curious facts. "The Apple is Red," was one of them, I remember, and "The Round Ball Can Roll."