WE WANT LYRICS
Thousands of faces breakTo one word called dramatic:Thousands of faces attainAn over-worked, realisticClash of stupidities.At first the mob spreads outIts animated fights of lines—Butcher with a face one degreeRemoved from the dead flesh which he cuts;Socialist whose face rebukesThe cry for justice tumbling from his lips;Five professors of EnglishWhose faces are essentiallySchool-boys coerced by erudition;Bank-clerk with a faceWhere curiosityWeakly contends againstThe shrewd frown brought by counting slips of money;Girls whose first twenty yearsHave merely shown them the exactShade of pouting necessaryFor the gain of price-marked objects;Boys with cocksure facesWhere an awkward lyricWins the vitriol of civilization;Shop-girl whose face is likeThe faint beginning of a courtezanPrisoned by the trance of unsought labor;Wealthy man whose faceHolds a courteous, boredReply to traces of imagination;Housewife with a roundFace where dying disappointmentsFlirt with hosts of angel-lies;Old men with faces where a psychic doubtInvades the ruins of noses, lips, and eyesAnd dreams of better structures;Old woman with a faceLike a bashful rag-pickerRescuing bits of cast-off deviltriesBeneath the ebbing light of eyes.Stare upon these faces,With emotion cooled by everyBantering of thought,And they fade to one disorganizedDefeat that craves the smoothLubrications of music.The mob upon this streetReiterates one shout:“We want lyrics! Give us lyrics!”Space, and stars, and conscious thoughtStand above the house-tops of this street;Look down with frowning interest;Regard the implacable enemy.
Thousands of faces breakTo one word called dramatic:Thousands of faces attainAn over-worked, realisticClash of stupidities.At first the mob spreads outIts animated fights of lines—Butcher with a face one degreeRemoved from the dead flesh which he cuts;Socialist whose face rebukesThe cry for justice tumbling from his lips;Five professors of EnglishWhose faces are essentiallySchool-boys coerced by erudition;Bank-clerk with a faceWhere curiosityWeakly contends againstThe shrewd frown brought by counting slips of money;Girls whose first twenty yearsHave merely shown them the exactShade of pouting necessaryFor the gain of price-marked objects;Boys with cocksure facesWhere an awkward lyricWins the vitriol of civilization;Shop-girl whose face is likeThe faint beginning of a courtezanPrisoned by the trance of unsought labor;Wealthy man whose faceHolds a courteous, boredReply to traces of imagination;Housewife with a roundFace where dying disappointmentsFlirt with hosts of angel-lies;Old men with faces where a psychic doubtInvades the ruins of noses, lips, and eyesAnd dreams of better structures;Old woman with a faceLike a bashful rag-pickerRescuing bits of cast-off deviltriesBeneath the ebbing light of eyes.Stare upon these faces,With emotion cooled by everyBantering of thought,And they fade to one disorganizedDefeat that craves the smoothLubrications of music.The mob upon this streetReiterates one shout:“We want lyrics! Give us lyrics!”Space, and stars, and conscious thoughtStand above the house-tops of this street;Look down with frowning interest;Regard the implacable enemy.
Thousands of faces break
To one word called dramatic:
Thousands of faces attain
An over-worked, realistic
Clash of stupidities.
At first the mob spreads out
Its animated fights of lines—
Butcher with a face one degree
Removed from the dead flesh which he cuts;
Socialist whose face rebukes
The cry for justice tumbling from his lips;
Five professors of English
Whose faces are essentially
School-boys coerced by erudition;
Bank-clerk with a face
Where curiosity
Weakly contends against
The shrewd frown brought by counting slips of money;
Girls whose first twenty years
Have merely shown them the exact
Shade of pouting necessary
For the gain of price-marked objects;
Boys with cocksure faces
Where an awkward lyric
Wins the vitriol of civilization;
Shop-girl whose face is like
The faint beginning of a courtezan
Prisoned by the trance of unsought labor;
Wealthy man whose face
Holds a courteous, bored
Reply to traces of imagination;
Housewife with a round
Face where dying disappointments
Flirt with hosts of angel-lies;
Old men with faces where a psychic doubt
Invades the ruins of noses, lips, and eyes
And dreams of better structures;
Old woman with a face
Like a bashful rag-picker
Rescuing bits of cast-off deviltries
Beneath the ebbing light of eyes.
Stare upon these faces,
With emotion cooled by every
Bantering of thought,
And they fade to one disorganized
Defeat that craves the smooth
Lubrications of music.
The mob upon this street
Reiterates one shout:
“We want lyrics! Give us lyrics!”
Space, and stars, and conscious thought
Stand above the house-tops of this street;
Look down with frowning interest;
Regard the implacable enemy.