The Little Drums are banging 
Mad war songs of the trails. 
My nostrils sting with memories 
Of thunderous, crashing gales. 
My eyes are sick with staring 
At these monoliths of man 
And sick of vain illusion 
I shall go where I can, 
Find Gods to fit my temples- 
Find strength to meet my need- 
Find scars to hold my memories- 
Find men who knew my creed- 
Sick of the waste of mankind 
In these roaring walls of stone, 
(These lustful sons of boredom 
Afraid to be alone) 
I shall make my pack and wander 
To the Beach from where I came 
And away from all this tinseled filth 
I shall revel in my shame! 

         TenEyck Van Deusen