 | Collected poems by Vachel Lindsay |  |
384
WHO KNOWS?
They say one king is mad. Perhaps. Who knows?
They say one king is doddering and gray.
They say one king is slack and sick of mind,
A puppet for hid strings that twitch and play.
They say one king is doddering and gray.
They say one king is slack and sick of mind,
A puppet for hid strings that twitch and play.
Is Europe then to be their sprawling-place?
Their madhouse, till it turns the wide world's bane?
Their place of maudlin, slavering conference
Till every far-off farmstead goes insane?
Their madhouse, till it turns the wide world's bane?
Their place of maudlin, slavering conference
Till every far-off farmstead goes insane?
| Collected poems by Vachel Lindsay | |