I AM a hoodlum, you are a hoodlum, we and all of us are a world of hoodlumsâ€”maybe so. I hate and kill better men than I am, so do you, so do all of usâ€”maybeâ€”maybe so. In the ends of my fingers the itch for another manâ€™s neck, I want to see him hanging, one of duskâ€™s cartoons against the sunset. This is the hate my father gave me, this was in my motherâ€™s milk, this is you and me and all of us in a world of hoodlumsâ€”maybe so. Let us go on, brother hoodlums, let us kill and kill, it has always been so, it will always be so, there is nothing more to it. Let us go on, sister hoodlums, kill, kill, and kill, the torsoes of the worldâ€™s motherâ€™s are tireless and the loins of the worldâ€™s fathers are strongâ€”so go onâ€”kill, kill, kill. Lay them deep in the dirt, the stiffs we fixed, the cadavers bumped off, lay them deep and let the night winds of winter blizzards howl their burial service. The night winds and the winter, the great white sheets of northern blizzards, who can sing better for the lost hoodlums the old requiem, â€œKill him! kill him!â€¦â€ Today my son, to-morrow yours, the day after your next door neighborâ€™sâ€”it is all in the wrists of the gods who shoot crapsâ€”it is anybodyâ€™s guess whose eyes shut next. Being a hoodlum now, you and I, being all of us a world of hoodlums, let us take up the cry when the mob sluffs by on a thousand shoe soles, let us too yammer, â€œKill him! kill him!â€¦â€ Let us do this now â€¦ for our mothers â€¦ for our sisters and wives â€¦ let us kill, kill, killâ€”for the torsoes of the women are tireless and the loins of the men are strong.Chicago, July 29, 1919.