The days run ruin, unleashing raw
Resentful, sweeping hate, and men
Lips thin with broken grins
Rob meaning of its peculiar flaw
With words that all fall deadly on
Minds bewildered by Leviathan.
With each cool dawn the swords of ink
Announce with knowing gear and wink
The holy causes of the tribe, seed
Riots, surging from itchy feet,
Hiding beneath mere shibboleths
Of honor, and send children to untimely deaths.
The times are fig-ripe for the spoiling sting,
People busy singing adoration
To billion-footed gods in trivial oration:
While they curse a dead God for dying.