"But a rival, of Solutre, told the tribe my style was outre--
'Neath a tomahawk, of diorite, he fell
And I left my views on Art, barbed and tanged, below the heart
Of a mammothistic etcher at Grenelle.
Then I stripped them, scalp from skull,
and my hunting-dogs fed full,
And their teeth I threaded neatly on a thong;
And I wiped my mouth and said,
It is well that they are dead,
For I know my work is right and theirs was wrong."