Not just a matter of knowing the words,
Nor stringing together in ways unheard
That makes a blast of vitriol seem new.
Any man can make fires rhyme and smell
Of brimstone, sulfur, and lye, all quite well,
But is it art? Is it glory they spew?
There is an art in juxtaposition,
Contrasting impossible positions
That is no mere string, pearly words of blue.
Arranged like stars, all color and sparkle,
But edges sharp and hard, remarkable,
That kiss the demons where angels once flew.
Where then are the men whose calumny stands
Out more than the songs of all marching bands
As highest invective of golden hue?
They are but few. They have always been few.Published in