  WE are very slightly changed From the semi-apes who ranged India’s prehistoric clay; Whoso drew the longest bow, Ran his brother down, you know, As we run men down to-day. “Dowb,” the first of all his race, On the lake or in the cave, Stole the steadiest canoe, Ate the quarry others slew, Died—and took the finest grave. When they scratched the reindeer-bone, Someone made the sketch his own, Filched it from the artist—then, Even in those early days, Won a simple Viceroy’s praise Through the toil of other men. Ere they hewed the Sphinx’s visage, Favouritism governed kissage, Even as it does in this age. Who shall doubt the secret hid Under Cheops’ pyramid Was that the contractor did Cheops out of several millions? Or that Joseph’s sudden rise To Comptroller of Supplies Was a fraud of monstrous size On King Pharaoh’s swart Civilians? Thus, the artless songs I sing Do not deal with anything New or never said before. As it was in the beginning, Is to-day official sinning, And shall be for evermore. Rudyard Kipling. |
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