He was born in Bayfield, as you would suspect,
The only child of Mister Pulp and
A lovely named Anne, who died by her own hand:
Suicide at twenty-five. It is correct
That his portraits show a brow
Heightened diabolically, as from much thought.
But the rumors that he is somehow
Inhuman most certainly are not.

His predilection for preciosity
Is relatively well-known. What of it?
Despise him for it or love it,
There is a kind of animosity
About him when he lectures. He’s vicious.
To him self-development is the whole
Aim of life. Governments make him suspicious.
Politically, freedom is the total goal.

Of the race wrecked by success, always holds
His cards very closely against the vest.
Solitary, somewhat sad, he is at best
Cut from two entirely different molds.
An atheist who prays? Actually, no. Not quite:
But preaches reason, the philomathic,
Believes in knowledge that brought the world light,
Concerning which things, he’s almost psychopathic.

Possesses energy to burn. Hard-core.
Deplores all socialistic, egalitarian
Thought. Still, whatever the carrion
Commentators have come to report — Mr. Pulp: whore,
Co-conspirator, burnout, pig, poet
Truckdriver, bartender, autodidact grinning
That damned hooked grin, who loves to show it —
He is, on balance, more sinned against than sinning.