Her topes that had trod (so she said) the paths of beauty
Since Hector was a pup at Troy . . .
She sat upon a couch . . . bards, swamis and Hermione,
Gilt souls and purple, melomaniacs, yellow souls
And blue,
Souse socialists and other cognac-scented cognoscenti,
Post-cubist chicles that would ne'er jell into gum . . .
All, all the little groups from all the brainstorm Slums . . .
Why specify? . . . we know our little groups!
. . . where there . . .
Were there to worship at those feet . . . to vibrate
and change color with the moods of those unusual feet. . . .
"This toe," she said, "is Beauty . . . this is Art . . .