(this poem is from O'Neill's book, The Great New England Sea-Serpent)

The sea-serpent, in languor curved
About a rock, the world observed,
How all the beasts and birds
And fishes too, from near and far
Were pigeon-holed by genera
And tagged with Latin words.

"They lose thereby, each one," said he.
"His individuality
And influence to boot
The others mark his spot or stripe,
Ignore the beast but not the type
And pitch their praise to suit."

So sailormen he sunned, save such
As a double grog had drunk too much
And had a might bun on.
"For these," said he, "will never agree"
Some give me one head, some say three,
And some that I have none on.

"They credit one with variation,
A virtue in intoxication
As excellent, as rare."
And then he swore, while life was hise,
To be just sui generis,
A fearful oath to swear.

For still the world in anger raves
Not half so hard at cheats and knaves,
Its anger all is turned
On harmless chaps whose end and glory
Is not to fit a category.
This truth our hero learned.

In boat and plane and submarine
Bewhiskered pundits, students keen
Pursued him day and night,
Inventing terms of barb'rous Latin
That Julius Caesar could not chat in
Or Cicero recite

At last, of food and sleep bereft -
No leisure more or refuge left -
Of long pursuit he tired,
And softly murm'ring e'er he died,
"Thank god, I die unclassified!"
Resignedly expired.

-- Claudius Jones 1929