The American Spirit speaks:

'If the Led Striker call it a strike,
⁠Or the papers call it a war,
They know not much what I am like,
⁠Nor what he is, My Avatar.'

Through many roads, by me possessed,
⁠He shambles forth in cosmic guise;
He is the Jester and the Jest,
⁠And he the Text himself applies.

The Celt is in his heart and hand,
⁠The Gaul is in his brain and nerve;
Where, cosmopolitanly planned,
⁠He guards the Redskin's dry reserve.

His easy unswept hearth he lends
⁠From Labrador to Guadeloupe;
Till, elbowed out by sloven friends,
⁠He camps, at sufferance, on the stoop.

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