Poem by George Sylvester Viereck

Slaves

No puppet master pulls the strings on high,
  Portioning our parts, the tinsel and the paint:
A twisted nerve, a ganglion gone awry,
  Predestinates the sinner and the saint.

Each, held more firmly than by hempen band,
  Slave of his entrails, struts across the scene:
The malnutrition of some obscure gland
  Makes him a Ripper or the Nazarene.

1. The Three Sphinxes
2. The Magic City
3. The Cynic’s Credo
4. Iron Passion

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