 | 'Twixt Kiss and Lip or Under the Sword. By the author of "Women Must Weep," [i.e. F. W. O. Ward] Third edition |  |
THE GOSPEL OF DIRT. 1890.
I am a Poet, sir,
As every critic sees,
Who is a true philosopher,
And takes my golden fees;
Some for the scholar sing,
And deal in classic lore,
Or a fair snow-white mantle fling,
On any titled whore;
Let me the masses ply,
And show beneath his shirt,
How man is made of Deity
And dirt.
As every critic sees,
Who is a true philosopher,
And takes my golden fees;
Some for the scholar sing,
And deal in classic lore,
Or a fair snow-white mantle fling,
On any titled whore;
Let me the masses ply,
And show beneath his shirt,
How man is made of Deity
And dirt.
My last and greatest book—
A shilling is the price—
Takes a large comprehensive look,
On poesies of vice;
The pure romance of bawd
And unprotected sin,
It's my peculiar part to laud,
And genius note in gin;
I prove, if heroes hang,
They are with glory girt—
How every precious jewel sprang
From dirt.
A shilling is the price—
Takes a large comprehensive look,
On poesies of vice;
The pure romance of bawd
And unprotected sin,
It's my peculiar part to laud,
And genius note in gin;
768
They are with glory girt—
How every precious jewel sprang
From dirt.
The virtues are played out,
And at their sickly scent
Our maids and matrons only pout,
And won't be continent;
With marriage now they fight,
As with an iron glove,
And so I sketch them the delight
Of free, promiscuous love;
I follow good old Ham,
And draw aside the skirt
Of modesty, and mark how jam
Is dirt.
And at their sickly scent
Our maids and matrons only pout,
And won't be continent;
With marriage now they fight,
As with an iron glove,
And so I sketch them the delight
Of free, promiscuous love;
I follow good old Ham,
And draw aside the skirt
Of modesty, and mark how jam
Is dirt.
Let others stick to rule
Or stupid Decalogue,
And cold castrated bigots pule—
I play the ethnagogue;
I lead a nation on
Beneath a sunnier sky,
From shades where never comfort shone,
To lands of liberty;
Back to the blessèd fount,
With naked truth to flirt,
Where man and beast have one account
With dirt.
Or stupid Decalogue,
And cold castrated bigots pule—
I play the ethnagogue;
I lead a nation on
Beneath a sunnier sky,
From shades where never comfort shone,
To lands of liberty;
Back to the blessèd fount,
With naked truth to flirt,
Where man and beast have one account
With dirt.
For I am human, sir,
To passions give the reins,
And like by ardent strokes to stir
The blood in woman's veins;
I raise the devil, too,
With bolder, brighter play,
Whom all the darlings rush to woo,
And find they cannot lay;
I draw the sinner nude,
Except his scanty shirt,
And etch the saint below the prude
In dirt.
To passions give the reins,
And like by ardent strokes to stir
The blood in woman's veins;
I raise the devil, too,
With bolder, brighter play,
Whom all the darlings rush to woo,
And find they cannot lay;
I draw the sinner nude,
Except his scanty shirt,
And etch the saint below the prude
In dirt.
I move behind the scenes,
Unmask the muddy source
To virgins in their early teens,
Who want a candid course;
French novels point my pen,
And yield me spicy food,
With nice if naughty ways of men,
In every wanton mood;
Divorces out I track,
With but a figleaf girt,
That teach how nature soon goes back
To dirt.
Unmask the muddy source
To virgins in their early teens,
Who want a candid course;
French novels point my pen,
And yield me spicy food,
With nice if naughty ways of men,
In every wanton mood;
769
With but a figleaf girt,
That teach how nature soon goes back
To dirt.
I read the people's heart,
And study thus to please,
With visions of a warmer art
And morals that don't tease;
I open wide all gates,
Nor keep the poorest out,
Demolish bolts and bars and hates,
And superstitious doubt;
I never hint at blame,
Cut short the clogging skirt,
Revealing how to creep to fame
By dirt.
And study thus to please,
With visions of a warmer art
And morals that don't tease;
I open wide all gates,
Nor keep the poorest out,
Demolish bolts and bars and hates,
And superstitious doubt;
I never hint at blame,
Cut short the clogging skirt,
Revealing how to creep to fame
By dirt.
My mission is quite clear,
To rub off pious paints,
And the old dull unreasoning fear
Of fanatics' restraints;
To make a wider stage,
With life and loving free,
That man and woman, youth and age,
Unfettered, may agree;
That lofty minds and low
With any filth may flirt—
Till there is nothing left to show
But dirt.
To rub off pious paints,
And the old dull unreasoning fear
Of fanatics' restraints;
To make a wider stage,
With life and loving free,
That man and woman, youth and age,
Unfettered, may agree;
That lofty minds and low
With any filth may flirt—
Till there is nothing left to show
But dirt.
| 'Twixt Kiss and Lip or Under the Sword. By the author of "Women Must Weep," [i.e. F. W. O. Ward] Third edition | |