Sons of culture, God-given,
First offspring of Heaven,
Athletic and tanned,
Well-built and not nervous,
With your golf and your tweeds
And your "noble editions,"
Quiet lives and few needs
(Say a thousand a year
For your earthly career)
Who can't understand
Discontent and seditions,
May Heaven preserve us
From being like you.
What are we, what am I?
Poor rough creatures, whose life
Is "depressing" and "grey,"
Is a heart-breaking strife
With death and with shame
And your polite laughter,
Till—the world pass away
In smoke and in flame,
And some of us die,
And some live on after
To build it anew.