’Midst this brute shindy, brainless, mad?
The slime-deeps of the town are stirred,
All that’s bloodthirsty, blatant, bad,
Comes, surging up;
And I—ah! I hang back and drain the cup
Of bitter want in silence, blent with shame
At this base smirching of a Man’s good name.
And then the cynic cacklers crow
In their snug cushions; crow and cry:
“Oh, the whole thing’s a farce, you know.