The Devil Was A Gentleman

He wrote for the dead, but the ubiquitous dead
Like their own wisdom, and preferred their bed;

He wrote for the blind, yet the polygonous blind
Had richer, thicker things just then in mind;

He wrote for the dumb, but the golden-voices dumb
Were singing their own songs and could not come;

So he wrote for the unborn, since surely, it is said,
At least they’re neither dumb, nor blind, nor dead.