(Dedicated to the Little Masters of Decay)
Pessimists all, all ye that swear
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By Nietzsche, Freud, and Edgar Poe,
Remy de Gourmont, Baudelaire,
And other gentlemen of woe,—
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All that is nasty, "strange" and "new"—
I'd like—and yet not like!—to know,
If Life's all wrong,—what's wrong with you?
You that pollute the wholesome air
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With nauseous pullulating flow
From brains unclean and sick despair,
Doting on dirt, and footing slow
Where leprous-spotted fungi grow,
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Abhorring all the gold and blue
Where morning sings and brave winds blow;
If Life's all wrong—what's wrong with you?
O world that Shakespeare found so fair,
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This goodly and most gallant show,
This bannered, flower-strewn thoroughfare
Where Life and Love in glory go,
And Courage Sorrow doth o'er-crow,
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And Wonder, with perpetual dew;
For me the world is well enow:
If Life's all wrong—what's wrong with you?
To Hades, Prince, these caitiffs throw,
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Rat-poison for the sickly crew
That reap not, neither do they sow!
If Life's all wrong—what's wrong with you?