This cold of beauty's your name. Hoar to the frost of its block the tenement rulling throng and its beast burn song. the bad man thinks yelling makes him a poet speaking for others. Not their word or his song, but their's . So he clamoursly claims . Mona brushes him off a fool to his bursting melody. A farce t o his cruel song, melody maker of a crying upstart a hooey blower on the whale of suffering's particular joint

This is the cool tea's mace, history's chopping rock.