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Opera cape and top hat, false sword-cane,The Evil one doesn't attain his fullStature until the nineteenth century:A handsome presence on the boulevards;Upstaging actors in the theatres,A textile baron in the center box;Or Grand Duke in the chambre separée;The Walloon owner of condemned coal mines;The Flemish syndicalist whose blind eyeIs always turned; the Randlord on Park Lane;Proconsul home from Cairo; Rajah weighedIn diamonds untouchables have mined;Untouchables who traffic in child brides;And, scrivening away in reading rooms,A less than suave Karl Marx, Mephisto quickTo offer scrip for our immortal souls.Box office, hell mouth, trapdoor in the stageAdmit invisibly the Devil we,Or Devil we would be had not our ownDecades their figures of the boulevards:The rapper, dealer, tenured Maoist.Red tights are where you find them, cloven hoovesIn brand-name sandals, horns on Botox foreheads.Met on the street one cannot say to Him"Get thee behind me," Rosa Parks might hear. [End Page 185]

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