I The Foreman'S Head Slowly Circling... White Rims Under Yellow Disks Of Eyes.... Gold Hairs Starting Out Of A Blond Scowl... Hovering... Disappearing... Recurring... The Foreman'S Head. Droning Of Power-Machines... Droning Of Girl With Adenoids... Arms Flapping With A Fin-Like Motion Under Sun Burning Down Through A Sky-Light Like A Glass Lid. Light Skating On The Rims Of Wheels... Boring In Gimlet Points. Needles Flickering Fierce White Threads Of Light Fine As A Wasp'S Sting. Light In Sweat-Drops Brighter Than Eyes And Calico-Pallid Faces And Bodies Throwing Off Smells - And The Air A Bloated Presence Pressing On The Walls And The Silence A Compressed Scream. Allons Enfants De La Patrie - Electric... Piercing... Shrill As A Fife The Voice Of A Little Russian Breaks Out Of The Shivered Circle. Another Voice Rises... Another And Another Leaps Like Flame To Flame. And Life - Surging, Clamorous, Swarming Like A Rabble Crazily Fluttering Ragged Petticoats - Comes Rushing Back Into Torpid Eyes Like Suddenly Yielded Gates. The Girl With Adenoids Rocks On Her Hams. A Torrent Of Song Strains At Her Throat, Gurgles, Rushes, Gouges Her Blocked Pipes. Her Feet Beat A Wild Tattoo - Head Flung Back And Pelvis Lifting To The White Body Of The Sun. Mates Now, These Two - Goddess And God.... Marchons! Only The Power Machines Drone With Metallic Docility Under The Flaxen Head Of The Foreman Poised Like An Amazed Gull. Ii To-Day Little French Merchant Men With Pointed Beards And Fat American Merchant Men Without Any Beards Drive To A Feast Of Buttered Squabs. The Band... Accoutered And Neatly Caparisoned... Plays The Marseillaise.... And I Think Of A Wild Stallion... Newly Caught... Flanks Yet Taut And Nostrils Spread To The Smell Of A Racing Mare, Hitched To A Grocer'S Cart.