You felons on trial in courts;
You convicts in prison-cells, you sentenced assassins, chain�d and hand-cuff�d with iron;
Who am I, too, that I am not on trial, or in prison?
Me, ruthless and devilish as any, that my wrists are not chain�d with iron, or my ankles with iron?
You prostitutes flaunting over the trottoirs, or obscene in your rooms,
Who am I, that I should call you more obscene than myself?
O culpable!
I acknowledge, I expos�!
(O admirers! praise not me! compliment not me! you make me wince,
I see what you do not, I know what you do not.)
Inside these breast-bones I lie smutch�d and choked;
Beneath this face that appears so impassive, hell�s tides continually run;
Lusts and wickedness are acceptable to me;
I walk with delinquents with passionate love;
I feel I am of them, I belong to those convicts and prostitutes myself,
And henceforth I will not deny them, for how can I deny myself?