Make of me a new man in your image, mockingbird. I swear Fidelity to your cause, constancy in ideology. I want to trill The Babel tongues and hear your new stories. Where did you say I could find your mother, and hers? Chart me a course, And my own southwestern discovery I will defy, You and yours honorably to lay to rest. Come down, Come down O songbird. Come down and pick of my berries. They were lashed fast to their masts, and as Siren forwent Ulysses for his many men, I took to violence upon their mass. I reaved, saint. I tore from the ground their mother the roots, And indiscriminate flung my spoils in this knapsack. Come down and make hay of your day, bosom in sunlight. When inspiration lacks, command me a new shape and register: Then I will tilt these sorry tools skyward, and make for you what I can. Come down, sir!