(_The Spirit of Discord now creeps softly out from among the Critics._)
Rash poets, think what you would do-- There's nobody left you can read it to!
We never thought of that! An audience, 'tis flat, Is our most pressing need, To listen to our screed;
Base scribbler, get thee hence Or be my audience!
But what _you_ write is merely rot! Hush up and let _me_ read My great, eternal screed!
(_Each Poet now draws a Fountain Pen with a bayonet attached, and kills the Poet next him, dying himself immediately from the wound of the Poet on the other side. They fall in neat windrows. There are no Poets left. Meanwhile the Non-Poetry-Writing Public, two in number, who have been shooting crap in a corner, rise up at the sound of the fall, take three paces to the front, and speak:_)
What's the use o' poetry, anyhow? _I_ always say, 'if you wanta say anything you can say it a lot easier in prose.' _I_ never wrote no poetry, and I get along fine in the hardware business.
CHORUS OF CRITICS AND CULTURE-HOUNDS, (_thrilled:_)
Ah, a new Gospel! Let us write Reviews About it!
THE SPIRIT OF THE REJECTION SLIP (_entering, and addressing the Editors and Publishers who follow her._)
Now I shall pass from you. My task comes to a close. I wing my hallowed way To the Fool-Killer's Paradise, and there for aye Repose.
Nay, our great helper, nay! Leave us not yet, our only comforter! We'll need thee still; Folks who write poetry There's naught on earth can kill!
(_During this the_ CULTURE-HOUNDS, CRITICS, _etc., have clustered round the_ NON-POETRY-WRITING PUBLIC, _whispering, urging, and pushing. It rises and scratches its head in a flattered way, and finally says:_)
B'gosh, I do believe, Now that you speak of it, I could do just as good As any of those there fool dead fellers could!
(_The late Non-Poetry-Writing Public are both immediately invested with lyres, and wreaths which they put on over their derby hats._)
SEMI-CHORUS OF EDITORS (to Spirit of Rejection Slip)
Who shall escape o'ermastering tragic fate?
(_They go off and sob in two rows in the corners, while the rest of the Masque, except_ ATÉ, _who looks at them as if she weren't through yet, and the_ MUSE, _form up to do a dance symbolic of One Being Born Every Minute. They sing:_)