In the Neolithic Age savage warfare did I wage
 For food and fame and woolly horses' pelt;
I was singer to my clan in that dim, red Dawn of Man,
 And I sang of all we fought and feared and felt.
 
Yea, I sang as now I sing, when the Prehistoric spring
 Made the piled Biscayan ice-pack split and shove;
And the troll and gnome and dwerg, and the Gods of Cliff and Berg
 Were about me and beneath me and above.
 
But a rival, of Solutr]/e, told the tribe my style was ~outr]/e~ --
 'Neath a tomahawk of diorite he fell.
And I left my views on Art, barbed and tanged, below the heart
 Of a mammothistic etcher at Grenelle.
 
Then I stripped them, scalp from skull, and my hunting dogs fed full,
 And their teeth I threaded neatly on a thong;
And I wiped my mouth and said, "It is well that they are dead,
 For I know my work is right and theirs was wrong."
 
But my Totem saw the shame; from his ridgepole shrine he came,
 And he told me in a vision of the night: --
"There are nine and sixty ways of constructing tribal lays,
 And every single one of them is right!"
 
 . . . . .
 
Then the silence closed upon me till They put new clothing on me
 Of whiter, weaker flesh and bone more frail;
And I stepped beneath Time's finger, once again a tribal singer
 [And a minor poet certified by Tr--ll].
 
Still they skirmish to and fro, men my messmates on the snow,
 When we headed off the aurochs turn for turn;
When the rich Allobrogenses never kept amanuenses,
 And our only plots were piled in lakes at Berne.
 
Still a cultured Christian age sees us scuffle, squeak, and rage,
 Still we pinch and slap and jabber, scratch and dirk;
Still we let our business slide -- as we dropped the half-dressed hide --
 To show a fellow-savage how to work.
 
Still the world is wondrous large, -- seven seas from marge to marge, --
 And it holds a vast of various kinds of man;
And the wildest dreams of Kew are the facts of Khatmandhu,
 And the crimes of Clapham chaste in Martaban.
 
Here's my wisdom for your use, as I learned it when the moose
 And the reindeer roared where Paris roars to-night: --
There are nine and sixty ways of constructing tribal lays,
 And -- every -- single -- one -- of -- them -- is -- right!