Madmen know nothing. How then am I mad?
I know the mind of god, the mind of man
That madness is the heart of good and bad
And those who think they know this never can
That art and science merely serve to drape
Upon the naked form of what we know
We feel their chains and know we must escape
Or let them drag us down to hell below
Then every word we know is sounded near
And all the sounds, a sickly rhythm, make
A poem which the madmen only fear;’
Each beat a link which knowledge cannot break
And man is god when guilty of this art
It is the beating of his hideous heart