0 little men, yes, fell the old and blest.

Wield your machetes. Hack to death the best.

Exalt the thief and pervert. Scorn the wise,

Who watch your antics with their aging eyes.

Vaunt hate and hopelessness. Give sneers to virtue,

Lest virtue, turned against you, find and hurt you.

Let no head lift itself to challenge yours.

Thrust onward, through your gutters, drains and sewers.

Cry hail, all hail! to ugliness and woe.

Deny the beautiful. Hoist up the low.

Praise madness, filthiness; weed out the shelves

Till none be left there but your puny selves.

Destroy all things the souls of men might feed on.

Stamp heel on faith. Slash down the tree of Eden.

Dance on the dung-heap. Never see the flowers.

Say nay to life. Seek drug-sleep that devours.

Let there be no true love, no simple kindness,

In this, the world of your distorted blindness.

Let nothing comely or holy be esteemed.

Live then, or die, in this hell you have dreamed.

Paul Scott Mowrer