-thou art ill born
-and thou births ill arts. Palsied, pale and puny knowing neither skeleton, nor labouring muscle nor flesh to clad the whole. Like foal, womb-wet, falters, folds and falls, failing to take to feet.
-jest fool, harp on, thy antic capers undo your dignity as they bolster mine. Clod, while you jibe at Men-of-Office, rail at rank and thumb nose at grave Authority, we are engraving Law, all set in stone as grey and grim as granite. We compass the circumference and diameter of your daily round, and mark the very bounds of your horizon.
While your every seventh step is backwards, to stand and admire your work, we march on, and in lockstep, knowing the brief candle of our lives shall never shed a flame upon the whole.
You sand-builders, mere sea-wash laps your walls away. What we raise is mountain, no tide can topple it.
Clown, prancing for coin, prattling paraquito, dumb ape of god, gawp, gaze, gasp, wonderstruck
At our work.

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