The Maniac

BY DR. AGONSON

Their foul stench, to me perfume, carried upon soft wind
transports my soul in fevered dreams I pray won’t end.
There I’ll go, a grinning fool, where better men
avoid, into a long forsaken glen.
Their sorrowful moans, sweet songs quite dear
—to all my peers a sound to fear—
I rejoin in manic shout:
To arms! To arms! And route!
These rotting corpses
learn my choice is
—Fight!—and win.
So sin’s
slain.

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