Sing my one song about you to the void;
And make the angels horribly annoyed.
ALWAYS THE SONNETTEER
Though I were old and mad and poor and dumb,
And your name were a blasphemy to say
For which men came and beat me, every day,
With seven-foot bull-hide whips—yet should they come,
Red smiles upon them, since I had no tongue,
And gasp with horror ... at black ant platoons
Wheeling in ordered state to form the runes,