Some write from press of power So born, they must
Some write to teach, to spread in widening wave
The cumulative long-sought light of truth.
Some write in patient industry, to earn
Their bread, spread news, teach, please and entertain
The market changes, and the current taste.
Today, with our Freud-poisoned, sated minds
We grovel like hot guests at Nero's Board,
We weary of the plain primeval lusts,
And must exploit disease, degeneracy,
All foul, bizarre and morbid manias.
Once stories of great men stood up like lamps
To light the path of youth, but we today,
Restricted in attacks on living men,
Dig up the helpless dead to vilify.

Hyenas, those who fail to hunt and kill,
Prowl among graves and drag the corpses out
Great names are chosen, the long-honored dead,
For on the measure of their fame alone
Rests the cash value of degrading them
Bones of a thousand years, however great,
Have not the flavor for our present taste
We want fresh corpses, recognizable,
Still honored and beloved by living men,
That our delight in shaming the great dead
May be enhanced by pain of those alive
“The truth” they say True, Cromwell had a wen.