I call on Roethke’s rocks
and rootlings, I command
Priest Hopkins’ stooks
and Willie Yeats’ swans,
to rise and testify
against the snarl and belch,
the soggy servile eye
above the cut-rate couch.
Kit, old tavern-roarer,
Wystan, you circus-wit,
in all your practiced power
come toss them to the pit
who parrot, ape, your calling.
Speak, in your several names,
who live by leave of having
such accents as your home.
And come, you high in air
with fine bats in your belfry:
my mad friend, John Clare,
Christopher Smart, and your cat
Geoffrey.
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