Ere the mother’s milk had dried On my lips, the Brethren came— Tore me from my nurse’s side, And bestowed on me a name Infamously overtrue— Such as ‘Bunny,’ ‘Stinker,’ ‘Podge’;— But, whatever I should do, Mine for ever in the Lodge. Then they taught with palm and toe— Then I learned with yelps and tears— All the Armoured Man should know Through his Seven Secret Years . . . Last, oppressing as oppressed, I was loosed to go my ways With a Totem on my breast Governing my nights and days— Ancient and unbribeable, By the virtue of its Name— Which, however oft I fell Lashed me back into The Game. And the World, that never knew, Saw no more beneath my chin Than a patch of rainbow-hue, Mixed as Life and crude as Sin.