Ezra Pound
George Elliott Clarke
“A Poet must write Truth, or blow bagpipeBanker-brogue, or cite Stats—line upon line— Numerals like lice, Squirming upon prime Flesh, ‘£s’ of high price— Pig-sweet, foaming spice, To toast each fork tine. I’ve zero to hide. My lyrics—ne’er snide— Yet lacerate trite Arms merchants, and spite Capitalists—Cripes!— And skewer liars. Bite Their plush asses! Gripe Until they decide Grave dirt suits their side, And glug cyanide. My words rip books wide: Paper prospers fire!”
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