Classic Poem

If twenty years hence you should be
Inhabiting this sphere,
I wish you'd do a thing for me,
As I may not be here.

I'd have you cast an eye about
In Art's great market-place,
And mark the men who fleer and flout
And wear a scornful face.

Interrogate these scornful men
And you will find, I think,
That Chaos has arrived again,
And Art is on the blink.

The painter's queer as queer can be,
The sculptor is as bad,
The poet's singing off the key,
The music-maker's mad.

Thus will they greet each rising star,
So will they blight and blast,
And rail against the things that are,
And harp upon the past.

These scoffers, these obstructionists,
These fossils—who are they?
The glad young, mad young Futurists
Who prance around to-day.