(PARIS) <br /> <br />I STOOD in Père-la-Chaise. The putrid City, <br />Paris, the harlot of the nations, lay, <br />The bug-bright thing that knows not love nor pity, <br />Flashing her bare shame to the summer's day. <br />Here where I stand, they slew you, brothers, whom <br />Hell's wrongs unutterable had made as mad. <br />The rifle shots re-echoed in his tomb, <br />The gilded scoundrel's who had been so glad. <br />O Morny, O blood-sucker of thy race — <br />O brain, O hand that wrought out empire that <br />The lust in one for power, for tinsel place, <br />Might rest; one lecher's hungry heart grow fat — <br />Is it for nothing, now and evermore, <br />O you whose sin in life had death in ease, <br />The murder of your victims beats the door <br />Wherein your careless carrion lies at peace?<br /><br />Francis William Lauderdale Adams<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/p-re-la-chaise/
