The Monk

Not the tragic strings 
Of the inner heart
Will I pull taut
To be played upon by every fool musician
The flimsy-souled centres of piety
Seeking a covering of art.

O I must play on the cat-gut
Strings of nonsense
A tango for the Many
Rich-loud with the spent fury of flesh torments.

And I shall not live worn
Down to the foundations
Of uninspired lust - 
A beggar of husk-wild corn..
In the Enclosure rare passions
Stab through the ascetic crust.