In Dionysian Sacrifice

I wish to write another song to show my soul some dignity which trodden was for ages long by demons of antipathy that all its joy 'pends not on queens but on the mind that shapes machines which liberate humanity from worldly bales and misery. Aye I say a woman is mirth in whose sweet bosom we rejoice whose harvest is an infant's birth. Sex nature's inexorable voice calls peremptorily all men whose fleshy urges have no end. It enslaves by invocation our souls to its convocation in Dionysian sacrifice.