I hate Bohemians;
They shatter my morale.

THERE are the Artists;
The Inventors of the Nude.
They are always gesticulating with their thumbs,
And sketching, with forks, on table cloths;
They point out all the different colors in a sunset
As if they were trying to sell it to you;
They are forever messing around with batik;
And hanging yellow tassels on things;
And stencilling everything within reach.
I do hope that Gibson never learns what they think of him:
It would simply break his heart.
Of course, they know that being hung in the Academy
Is just a matter of pull.
They say that James Montgomery Flagg may stoop to mere success,
But as for them,
Let them starve first!
Fair enough!

THERE are the Writers;
The Press Agents for Sex.
They are forever exposing their inmost souls,
Their "stuff" is always "brutally frank"—
Why, they'd just as soon tell you their favorite flower.
They find their fullest expression in free verse;
They call it that
Because they have to give it away.
They are extremely well read,
They can quote from their own works for hours—
Without a mistake.
They are always pulling manuscripts out of their pockets,
And asking you to tell them, honestly—is it too daring?
They would sit down
And write the Great American Novel
If they only could find a publisher Big Enough.
Oh, well—
Genius is an infinite capacity for giving pains.

THERE are the Actors;
They always refer to themselves as "Players".
Whenever two or three of them are gathered together
Another little theatre comes into the world.
They are eternally leasing vacant kitchenettes
And presenting their own dramas—with Woolworth scenery.
Of course, there can be no real drama above Fourteenth Street.
If they even walked across Times Square
They'd feel that they had lost their amateur standing.
They ask you what you think of their technique,
And then wait for you to commit perjury.
They thank God that they never descended to commercialism;
They know that they'll never be appreciated—
They don't know the half of it.

AND then there are the Radicals;
The Table D'Hôte Bolsheviki.
They are always in revolt about something.
Nothing has been done yet that they can wholly approve of.
Their existence is just like Heaven—
There is neither marrying nor giving in marriage.
They are forever starting magazines
And letting the Postal Authorities put the finish to them.
Their one ambition is to get themselves arrested,
So that they can come out and be Heroes.
They are always stifled—
Always longing to loose the trivial fetters of Convention,
And go far away,—back to the Real—
I wish they'd get started!

I hate Bohemians;
They shatter my morale.