When War marched in in shiny boots and everybody rose,
to march in time with drums and flutes, it wasn't peace they chose.
She saw a raindrop hit an ant and trap the thing inside,
and though she could have freed it then, she watched until it died.
The little death in every leaf that rides October's winds
is just the sleep that brings relief as every good day ends.
you pickled punks got it so damn right.
while the world parades before you -
an endless procession of
freaks and
failures and
perfumed foxes
(with delicate ankles
porcelain toes
pouting lips
and youthful bosoms)
who might, at first sight, think
"Oh! How awful!" then,
after staring a moment or two,
reflecting, think,
"There but for the grace of God...."
and never forget you
even through
the death rattle
and final exhalation -
you endure:
your all-seeing,
non-judging
countenance
living forever
in formaldehyde
and memory.
