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.
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