For many years I despaired Of ever experiencing True hate. The forgivable, The understandable. For principles, or for Convenience, or as A regrettable Contingency. All we have built And hoped for and done Are nothing to them, To the grey men With the artificially Human complexions. But everywhere, An exclusive clique.
Moral appeals Are pitiful squeaks Of rats in a trap.
Far better The bared teeth And the poisoned Bite. Small things can be rabid. Witness a mad rat. So tremble, grey men. Not only I have teeth.