As I walked out in the streets of Laredo
(As I walked out in Laredo one day),
I saw a pale poet wrapped up in a credo,
Dusted with dandruff, and wasting away.
“In error I published brief pages of song,
But I was erotic, and I know I done wrong.
“My short lines were shocking but nobody read of them,
Shelved by my friends and my wife, roly-poly.
Men bourgeois buy not books, they buy meats instead of t hem.
(Beat the drum slowly and play the fife lowly)
I sinned in my symbols from Yeats and from Joyce —
No vice in erotic with virile new voice.
“Take me to the graveyard and place the sod o’er me.
My trench mouth was trophic, my dreams were obscene.
My wife and my circle will lilt laments for me;
My metres unearth from the Small Magazine.
(Play the Dead March as you carry me along)
I’m an impotent poet and I know I sung wrong.”