You will give praise to all things, praise without end;
idly in the morning, bluntly at noon, cunningly with the evening cigar, you will meditate further praise;
so will the days pass, each profitable and serene; so will your sleep be undisturbed; so you will live;
no faith will be difficult, rising from doubt; no love will be false, born of dread;

In the flaring parks, in the speakeasies, in the hushed academies, your murmur will applaud the wisdom of a thousand quacks. For theirs is the kingdom.
By your sedate nod in the quiet office you will grieve with the magnate as he speaks of sacrifice. For his is the power.
Your knowing glance will affirm the shrewd virtue of clown and drudge; directors' room or streetcorner, the routine killer will know your candid smile; your handclasp, after the speeches at the club, will endorse the valor of loud suburban heroes. For theirs is the glory forever and ever.

Always, more than wise, you will be found with the many resolved against the few;
but you will be a brother, on second thought, to all men.

The metropolitan dive, jammed with your colleagues, the derelicts; the skyscraper, owned by your twin, the pimp of gumdrops and philanthropy; the auditoriums, packed with weeping creditors, your peers; the morgues, tenanted by your friends, the free dead; the asylums, cathedrals, prisons, treasuries, brothels, shrines—upon all, all of them you will find means to bestow praise,

And as you know, at last, that all of this will be,
as you walk among millions, indifferent to them,
or stop and read the journals filled with studied alarm,
or pause and hear, with no concern, the statesman vending manufactured bliss,

You will be grateful for an easy death,
your silence will praise them for killing you.