These things,

Hammer beaten,

Saw knicked,

Stabbed and scraped,

Are my dearest friends.

What am I to do with them,

Rascals, and vagabonds.

Roaming where they ought not

Punishing the cities with

Their presence

Spitting out the vilest contempts.

These, mangy and refused,

Partners in unspeakable evil,

And participatory in holiness,

Feel more than I can say.