No frail flowers but Villon,
Lyric poets strutting in their rhyme,
Master of meter, rhythm their own,
And never so completely out of time.
We are ages past that have returned,
Thrust against the modern kind of grime,
We can count machines as lessons learned,
And leave the vales and flowery woods behind
We can write in meter of the poor,
We ourselves reduced to wretched rags,
Celebrate the language of the whore,
And see within the beauty of a hag.