At what time in its little history
Did on the matrix of his brain a blow
Fall that struck like a relentless die
And left him speechless; or was it by degrees
That the algid folds of mind, caught in a pose,
Hardened and set like concrete,
Printing and fixing a distorted moment?
Nothing but death will smash this ugly cast
That wears its trade-mark big upon its face,
A scutcheon for Greek-letter brotherhoods
Where it is weakly sworn by smiles to cow
Unequals, niggers or just Methodists.
His bearing is a school of thought,
But he is not funny and not unimportant.
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