A Houyhnhnm's Scrapbook/Number 1/The King of Madagascar

The king of Madagascar rolled his tongue,
and asked for virgins, innocent of mind,
I wish to bear my breeding on the young,
he said, as on all humankind.

And over the blue meadows moonlight played,
where like an antelope the nightwind hid,
and in their huts old mothers kneeled and prayed
for what the king of Madagascar did.

And then the king of Madagascar called
for every man who had a lonely look:
Drink of my vintage, he ordered, and appalled,
they came to take the repast that he took.

Over the purple mountains waters fell
as in a dream of silver; ebony
the sleek road snaked beside the private well
where the old king was used to call his fee.

It is my judgment calling, cried the king;
I ask of you to win me with your sons;
knock at them thrice—and to the full moon sing
that you will war for me, more than once.

And all the village brought their phalanx round
to meet him on the sacrificial field.
The children danced, and like a beautiful wound
the elders sang allegiance to his shield.

Then did the King of Madagascar weep,
a royal fellow, but adamant with gall.
Like a fat roach the old moon seemed to creep
across his signs that shone upon the wall:

I hunger after godhead, after pride!
And the hot crowd thrust forward, hurt and eager,
and tore his black heart out, surprised he died,
no more immortal than the ape, or tiger.