He ascended the rostrum after the fashion of the Caesars: His arm, a baton raised oblique, Answering the salute of the thunder, Imposed a silence on the Square. For three hours A wind-theme swept his laryngeal reeds, Pounded on the diaphragm of a microphone, Entered, veered, ran round a coil, Emerged, to storm the passes of the ether, Until, impinging on a hundred million ear-drums, It grew into the fugue of Europe.

Nickel, copper and steel rang their quotations to the skies, And down through the diatonic scale The mark hallooed the franc, The franc bayed the lira, With the three in full flight from the pound. And while the diapasons were pulled On the Marseillaise, The Giovinezza And the Deutschlandlied, A perfect stretto was performed As the Dead March boomed its way Through God Save The King And the Star Spangled Banner.

Then the codetta of the clerics (Chanting a ritual over the crosses of gold tossed into the                     crucibles to back the billion credit) Was answered by The clang of the North Sea against the bows of the destroyers, The ripple of surf on the periscopes, The grunt of the Mediterranean shouldering Gibraltar, And the hum of the bombing squadrons in formation under Orion.

And the final section issued from the dials, WHEN— Opposed by contrapuntal blasts From the Federated Polyphonic Leagues Of Gynecologists, Morticians, And the Linen Manufacturers— The great Baritone, Soaring through the notes of the hymeneal register, Called the brides and the grooms to the altar, To be sent forth by the Recessional Bells To replenish the earth, And in due season to produce Magnificent crops of grass on the battlefields.