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<\/a><\/p>\nOut of the lights and roar of cities,
\nDrifting down like a spark in Spoon River,
\nBurnt out with the fire of drink, and broken,
\nThe paramour of a woman I took in self-contempt,
\nBut to hide a wounded pride as well.
\nTo be judged and loathed by a village of little minds\u2014
\nI, gifted with tongues and wisdom,
\nSunk here to the dust of the justice court,
\nA picker of rags in the rubbage of spites and wrongs,\u2014
\nI, whom fortune smiled on!
\nI in a village,
\nSpouting to gaping yokels pages of verse,
\nOut of the lore of golden years,
\nOr raising a laugh with a flash of filthy wit
\nWhen they bought the drinks to kindle my dying mind.
\nTo be judged by you,
\nThe soul of me hidden from you,
\nWith its wound gangrened
\nBy love for a wife who made the wound,
\nWith her cold white bosom, treasonous, pure and hard,
\nRelentless to the last, when the touch of her hand,
\nAt any time, might have cured me of the typhus,
\nCaught in the jungle of life where many are lost.
\nAnd only to think that my soul could not react,
\nLike Byron\u2019s did, in song, in something noble,
\nBut turned on itself like a tortured snake\u2014judge me this way,
\nO world.<\/p>\n