So far away, the deserts where we forge
From spotless innocence our coffined youth.
Ignore the grieving, childless parents, George,
Persuade as always with imperfect truth.
Thy banners folded, passed as if a gift
Unto our questing widows, sole reply.
Aim for the stars, and see attention drift,--
How easily accepting of the lie!
Poor amputees are swept under the rug,
Imparting calm upon the public’s mind,
Until we choke on corses that we dug:
Eventually our eyes shall ope and find
That, in our midst, the throne was shat upon
By thee, O painted Whore of Babylon!














6 old applause
