I am your master and your master’s master,
I am the dragon’s teeth which you have sown
In the field of dead men’s and live men’s bones.
I am the moving belt you cannot turn from :
The threat behind the smiling of the clock :
The paper on which your days are signed and witnessed
Which only the mouse and the moth and the flame
I an the rustle of bank-notes in your graves,
The crackle of lawyer’s seals beneath your tombstones,
Borne to the leaning ears of legatees.
I am the cunning one whose final cunning
Was to buy grace, to corner loveliness,
To make a bid for beauty and to win it
And lock it away.
A S J Tessimond (1902 - 1962)