In wrinkled citrus yet does it appear,
The Stupid God, and many, eager, hear
Its lesser avatars in this late year
Who strut and boast and bellow, squealing sows
Or clucking hens or farting, lowing cows,
And as each, done performing, takes their bows
And stoops to scoop up roses cast on stage,
Floral offerings of glad outrage
That they give who think themselves encaged
Because the heirs of those who once wore chains
Who felt the cracking whip and suffered pains
Therefrom no longer sing the old refrains
But sing instead the songs of its despite--
They struggle, dragging all away from right.
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