Eclogue of the Liberal
and the Liberal Poet
L.:
In that place, shepherd, all the men are dead.
P.:
Yes, look at the water grim and black
Where immense Europa rears her head,
Her face pinched and her breasts slack.
L.:
I said, shepherd, all the men are dead.
P.:
Shall I turn to the road that goes America
?
Is that a place for men to be dead
Or living ?
If
you don't mind being asked.
L.:
Try it and see, it's a pretty good way
To skim three thousand miles in a day
And none of them America.
P.:
But what about her face and the tasked
Wonders of her air and soil, ,her big belly
That Putnam writes about under the sun?
L.:
I don't know Put, I don't know his Nelly--
I'd name her that if she'd name it fun
But you know she hasn't any name,
Nowhere you touch her she's the same.
'----
P.:
What, shepherd, are we talking about?
L.:
You started it, shepherd.
P.:
Shepherd, I didn't.
L.:
You did; you saw the poetical face of Europe.
P.:
You said it was no place for men to be.
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