Ippolit Konovaloff

I was a gun-smith in Odessa.         One night the police broke in the room         Where a group of us were reading Spencer.         And seized our books and arrested us.         But I escaped and came to New York         And thence to Chicago, and then to Spoon River,         Where I could study my Kant in peace         And eke out a living repairing guns         Look at my moulds! My architectonics         One for a barrel, one for a hammer         And others for other parts of a gun!         Well, now suppose no gun - smith living         Had anything else but duplicate moulds         Of these I show you - well, all guns         Would be just alike, with a hammer to hit         The cap and a barrel to carry the shot         All acting alike for themselves, and all         Acting against each other alike.         And there would be your world of guns!         Which nothing could ever free from itself         Except a Moulder with different moulds         To mould the metal over.