Shapes of Clay

Because you call yourself Knights Templar, and

There's neither Knight nor Temple in the land,—

Because you thus by vain pretense degrade

To paltry purposes traditions grand,—

Because to cheat the ignorant you say

The thing that's not, elated still to sway

The crass credulity of gaping fools

And women by fantastical display,—

Because no sacred fires did ever warm

Your hearts, high knightly service to perform—

A woman's breast or coffer of a man

The only citadel you dare to storm,—

Because while railing still at lord and peer,

At pomp and fuss-and-feathers while you jeer,

Each member of your order tries to graft

A peacock's tail upon his barren rear,—

Because that all these things are thus and so,

I bid you welcome to our city. Lo!

You're free to come, and free to stay, and free

As soon as it shall please you, sirs—to go.