⁠'Neath a hammer, grooved of dolomite, he fell.
And I left my views on Art, barbed and tanged, below the heart
⁠Of a mammothistic etcher at Grenelle.

Then I stripped them, scalp from skull, and my hunting dogs fed full,
⁠And their teeth I threaded neatly on a thong;
And I wiped my mouth and said, 'It is well that they are dead,
⁠For I know my work is right and theirs was wrong.'

But my Totem saw the shame; from his ridgepole shrine he came,
⁠And he told me in a vision of the night:—
'There are nine and sixty ways of constructing tribal lays,
⁠And every single one of them is right!'