Madness.

When we pull off ourselves each kind of clothing,
The cloak of respectability and sageness,
The line of culture and the silk of learning;
How bare the soul, the naked filthiness;
In our poor stuff is the primeval mud,
The wild beast's slime is in our blood and marrow,
And the barbaric dance is in our tread,
Between our thumb and finger is the arrow.
Roaming the forest, free and primitive,
We sight between the twigs a bit of heaven,
where the saints sing anthems of grace and faith,
A full Magnificent of His salvation;
Like wolves we lift our nostrils, ravenous,
Howling for the Blood that ransomed us...