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