It is night and the drinkers of blood are too many.

It is night and the yawling of jungle breeds goes on.

Beat against the wall, O shadows,

The backwashes of hurricanes rise, move on and call for their toll of the strangler’s meshes.

Open the gateways, the valley doors.

Sit with your hands the same as always.

Baboon face, keep on sitting still.

Muttering, mumbling baboon, sit still.

Singing baboon, it is such a low song you sing to yourself.

Yah-yah, loo-loo, it is such a low song beating against the wall, the shadows, praying for the gateway, the valley doors—yah-yah, loo-loo.

Sit with your hands the same as always.

1915

Mr. Lincoln and His Gloves*

Mr. Lincoln on his way to Washington

to be the President of the United States

stays in New York City two days

and one night goes to the Opera.

Sits in a box, his lean speaking hands

on a red velvet railing.

And the audience notices something.

Yes, notices.

Mr. Lincoln is wearing gloves

kid gloves

black kid gloves.

The style

the vogue

the fashion is white kid gloves.

On the main floor

in the balcony

in the boxes

the gloves are correct and white.

A gentleman in another box tells his ladies:

“I think we ought to send some flowers over the way

to the Undertaker of the Union.”

Soon we see Mr. Lincoln in Washington kissing the Bible

swearing to be true to the Constitution.

Lincoln holding in his heart these words:

“I have not willingly planted a thorn in any man’s bosom.

I shall do nothing through malice.

What I deal with is too vast for malice.”

Now we see Mr. Lincoln at a White House reception

His fingers swollen, his white gloves

twisted by a mob of handshakes.

His right hand at last giving an extra strong handshake

to an Illinois man, an Illinois man he knew long ago.

Then it happens!

His right glove cracks and goes to pieces.

He holds his hand up, looks at the dangling glove.

“Well, my old friend, this is a general bustification,

you and I were never meant to wear these things.”

Another time, Mr. Lincoln rides away in a White House carriage.

Next to him an old western friend, wearing brand new white kid gloves.

Mr. Lincoln notices, can’t help noticing those brand new white tight gloves.

Mr. Lincoln digs down into his pocket.

Feels around and brings out his own brand new white kid gloves,

begins squeezing his fingers and thumbs in

when the old friend cries:

“No, no, Mr. Lincoln,

put up your gloves, Mr. Lincoln.”

And they ride along, talk and joke, no more bother,

sitting pretty

sitting easy

as two old worn gloves.

Often Mr. Lincoln cannot find his gloves.

Sometimes Mr. Lincoln forgets his gloves.

Often Mrs. Lincoln gives him a new pair, a nice, correct

fashionable pair of gloves.

And one day a California newspaper man

sees him hunting in his overcoat pocket

for a pair of gloves.