Apology lindsay ng
An Apology for the Bottle Volcanic by Vachel Lindsay. Sometimes I dip my pen, and find the bottle full of fire, the salamanders flying forth I cannot but admire. It's etna, or visuvius, if those big things were small, and then, tis but itself again and does not smoke at all, and so my blood grows cold.
I say, the bottle held but ink, and if you thought it otherwise, the worser for your think. And then, just as I throw my scribbled paper on the floor, the bottle says, Fee, fie, foe, fum, and steams and shouts some more. Oh, sad, deceiving ink!
As bad as liquor in its way, all demons of a bottle size have pranced from you today, and seized my pen for hobby-horse, as witches ride a broom, and left a trail of brimstone words and blots and gobs of gloom. And yet, when I am extra good, and say my prayers at night, and mind my ma, and do the chores and speak to folks polite, my bottle spreads a rainbow mist, and from the vapor
fine ten thousand troops from Fairyland come riding in a line. I've seen them on their chargers race around my study-chair. They opened wide the window and rode forth upon the air. The army widened as it went, and into myriads grew. Oh, how the lances shimmered!
How the silvery trumpets blew!
