My Tribe

Where is the Yellow Press now?  Those sophists and idealists with black tongues and red eyes.  Where are the critical flames and biting wits?  Are they all napping?

Where are the monkey-wrenchers now?  Those bloody-fisted ape men in dusty overalls and leather aprons.  Where are the passion and conviction that saves us from pleasantry?  Are they all home doing laundry?

Where the hell are the ragabash?  Those tattered and torn fools in harlequin capes and pointed hats, brandishing an unfired spit-wad at celebrity.  Where are the sticks and wands and fingers of the questioners?  Are they all unceremoniously employed?

And where are the satirists of Rome?  Those nobles with black fingers and blacker hearts?  Where are the sacred pins to prick and pop the inflations of the self-important? Are they lost unsung in the glass jungle?

Where are the legions of ingrates?  Where are the hordes of rebels?  Where are the firestorms of revolutionaries?  Where are the mutters of miscreants?  Where are my brothers and sisters?

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