Gloomy, dusty, bright motes playing
In the slanting beam of sunlight,
Pouring on us while we’re praying
Praying to be in the sunlight
Far from gloom and dust and swaying
To that idol in the dun light.
Pop we call the hideous idol,
From his dais leering o’er us;
On his altar doth he sidle,
Changing low his devil-chorus.
Coloured balls and rods he wangles,
Scribes mysterious signs in white chalk;
On our ears his harsh word jangles,
None could say that it was light talk;
Full of arms and planes and angles,
Sure to make the timid night walk.
One fine day we’ll rise in fever,
None will hang back, none will falter;
All agreed his cord to sever,
Round his neck draw tight the halter;
Lay him out there, still for ever,
Sacrificed on his own altar!
17. 10. 29