Ippolit KonovaloffI was a gun-smith in Odessa.One night the police broke in the roomWhere a group of us were reading Spencer.And seized our books and arrested us.But I escaped and came to New YorkAnd thence to Chicago, and then to Spoon River,Where I could study my Kant in peaceAnd eke out a living repairing gunsLook at my moulds! My architectonicsOne for a barrel, one for a hammerAnd others for other parts of a gun!Well, now suppose no gun-smith livingHad anything else but duplicate mouldsOf these I show you—well, all gunsWould be just alike, with a hammer to hitThe cap and a barrel to carry the shotAll acting alike for themselves, and allActing against each other alike.And there would be your world of guns!Which nothing could ever free from itselfExcept a Moulder with different mouldsTo mould the metal over.
I was a gun-smith in Odessa.One night the police broke in the roomWhere a group of us were reading Spencer.And seized our books and arrested us.But I escaped and came to New YorkAnd thence to Chicago, and then to Spoon River,Where I could study my Kant in peaceAnd eke out a living repairing gunsLook at my moulds! My architectonicsOne for a barrel, one for a hammerAnd others for other parts of a gun!Well, now suppose no gun-smith livingHad anything else but duplicate mouldsOf these I show you—well, all gunsWould be just alike, with a hammer to hitThe cap and a barrel to carry the shotAll acting alike for themselves, and allActing against each other alike.And there would be your world of guns!Which nothing could ever free from itselfExcept a Moulder with different mouldsTo mould the metal over.