The acolyte to his son: Appraise the sun, great gaudy failure. Vulgar, loose light. Fools’ gold and copper. And easy air, as free with pauper as king. Cheap thing. Unbred. No father. No culture. No keeper. No deed. Create behavior. Invent unease, beauty, new need. Wring out mean prayer. The Market will answer. The Market to the son: Listen, lamb: the ringing coins; the monger’s tongue; the tallying drums. All once was lonesome waste, tranquil horrors. I trembled—a safe-crack shake—into pieces, scattered my assets across space, ash and embers the gears of glassen windy grace transfigured. The Halleluiah: Hurray! Hurray, the gilded day! Bless belief, service, and praise repay! The Market: Came dragons, a ruthless race, but no brain for figures. And microbes, what brilliant flakes, no ambition. Brutes cried out, a wild and naked plaint: give us yoke and master. A new ape, its tricks and artful face, was delivered, up-raised to trade the night and day, dirt and sea, bright machines, revelry. And weapons and wounds—what harmony!—rebuild and mend, alms unending, righteous fees. The Entrepreneur’s Prayer: Make haste to save me, Marketplace, from pagan love and heathen peace. Sell me your answers. The rest forsake. The rest forsake. Give me their grace, wealth incarnate.