Then follows this lucid
and soul-stirring sentence: "5. We will sing the praises of man
holding the flywheel of which the ideal steering-post traverses
the earth impelled itself around the circuit of its own orbit."
What a jolly song it would be--so hearty, and with such a simple
swing in it! I can imagine the Futurists round the fire in a tavern
trolling out in chorus some ballad with that incomparable refrain;
shouting over their swaying flagons some such words as these:
A notion came into my head as new as it was bright
That poems might be written on the subject of a fight;
No praise was given to Lancelot, Achilles, Nap or Corbett,
But we will sing the praises of man holding the flywheel of which the ideal
steering-post traverses the earth impelled itself around the circuit
of its own orbit.
Then lest it should be supposed that Futurism would be so weak
as to permit any democratic restraints upon the violence and levity
of the luxurious classes, there would be a special verse in honour
of the motors also:
My fathers scaled the mountains in their pilgrimages far,
But I feel full of energy while sitting in a car;
And petrol is the perfect wine, I lick it and absorb it,
So we will sing the praises of man holding the flywheel of which the ideal
steering-post traverses the earth impelled itself around the circuit
of its own orbit.
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