Shapes of Clay

by Ambrose Bierce

MAD

MAD.

O ye who push and fight
To hear a wanton sing--
Who utter the delight
That has the bogus ring,--

O men mature in years,
In understanding young,
The membranes of whose ears
She tickles with her tongue,--

O wives and daughters sweet,
Who call it love of art
To kiss a woman's feet
That crush a woman's heart,--

O prudent dams and sires,
Your docile young who bring
To see how man admires
A sinner if she sing,--

O husbands who impart
To each assenting spouse
The lesson that shall start
The buds upon your brows,--

All whose applauding hands
Assist to rear the fame
That throws o'er all the lands
The shadow of its shame,--

Go drag her car!--the mud
Through which its axle rolls
Is partly human blood
And partly human souls.

Mad, mad!--your senses whirl
Like devils dancing free,
Because a strolling girl
Can hold the note high C.

For this the avenging rod
Of Heaven ye dare defy,
And tear the law that God
Thundered from Sinai!