Whitman Recidivist

this tamed race, moping proletariat?

What are these buildings

yeasting on the plains,

that drone of the cities--

ennui echoing ennui?

Men on the moon, rockets,

tele-this and tele-that--

but " what Vision?--

all the wires entangling:

some hydra-headed nullifidian

sucking the wounds of the eyes,

eating democracy, spitting it out--

these people " this land--

lost" O lost! Lost"

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