They called him The Man, He had to be monogrammed. They- for he had none, none his own, no name given. Fixedly singular A Thousand and Forty-nine, The man trudged into The New Cosmos With Arrowheads and Hand-axes, A perfect stranger. Hair coiled on this head He took with him to his playground- A bow and a quiver of five arrows, Tobacco, Three rings And flakes of stone.
A Hundred and Eight Praised by struggle
Devoted to a civilization
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