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GODS IN THE GUTTER

GODS IN THE GUTTER

I dreamed I saw three demi-gods who in a café sat,
And one was small and crapulous, and one was large and fat;
And one was eaten up with vice and verminous at that.


The first he spoke of secret sins, and gems and perfumes rare;
And velvet cats and courtesans voluptuously fair:
“Who is the Sybarite?” I asked. They answered: “Baudelaire.”


The second talked in tapestries, by fantasy beguiled;
As frail as bubbles, hard as gems, his pageantries he piled;
“This Lord of Language, who is he?” They whispered “Oscar Wilde.”


The third was staring at his glass from out abysmal pain;
With tears his eyes were bitten in beneath his bulbous brain.
“Who is the sodden wretch?” I said. They told me: “Paul Verlaine.”


Oh, Wilde, Verlaine and Baudelaire, their lips were wet with wine;
Oh poseur, pimp and libertine! Oh cynic, sot and swine!