Those who say Gord Struth; those who say Swelp Me - <br />pensioned soldiers and sailors, the wreckage of Empire - <br />are nothing, nothing at all, compared with the warriors of Excise <br />who slash the blue frontiers with their great axe-blows. <br />Pipes in their teeth, blades in their hands, deep, unruffled, <br />when darkness noses at the woods like a cow's muzzle, off they go, <br />leading their dogs, to hold their nocturnal and terrible revels! <br />They report the bacchantes to the laws of today. <br />They clap hands on the shoulders of Fausts and of Devils: <br />'Now then, none of that, you old dodgers! Put those bundles down!' <br />And, when his serene highness accosts the young, <br />the Customs Man holds fast to all contraband charms! <br />The Inferno for Offenders whom his hand has frisked!<br /><br />Arthur Rimbaud<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-customs-men/
