But they managed their deeds without casting
Down… as you wretched will usually try.

They have made exaltation their duty;
Men… they shall cleanse of your odious taint.
They have filled our museums with beauty,
Then… they discarded your splatters of paint.

They have tossed out your volumes of garble,
Not… fit for lining the cage of a skunk.
They’ve exalted our beauty in marble
Wrought… when they crushed all your piles of junk.

And your music and verse is forgotten
Guff… with its horrible discordant clash.
They’ve divested the Earth of that rotten
Stuff… when they threw out the rest of the trash.

This sonnet is part of a short sequence; click here to read it all:

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