(Dated 2/9/09, written during a bus ride).
Why, Sterling, on that old Greyhound,
Thus for the cost of half a ride,
Why, Sterling, sit you thus so down,
And think of places to hide?
Where is your spirit?–that mind unsheathed,
To Ideas depraved and forlorn!
Down! Down! And lay that funeral wreath
On your enemies and their scorn.
You look forward to your comfortable grave,
As if it’s the drive that ails you;
As if you were the favorite knave,
And none as despicable as you!