The Man with the Blue Guitar X

Raise reddest columns. Toll a bell

And clap the hollows full of tin.

Throw papers in the streets, the wills

Of the dead, majestic in their seals.

And the beautiful trombones-behold

The approach of him whom none believes,

Whom all believe that all believe,

A pagan in a varnished care.

Roll a drum upon the blue guitar.

Lean from the steeple. Cry aloud,

"Here am I, my adversary, that

Confront you, hoo-ing the slick trombones,

Yet with a petty misery

At heart, a petty misery,

Ever the prelude to your end,

The touch that topples men and rock."