nation anti-poetry, egregore anti-art.
vocabulary reduced to a loft of poison'd darts.
you'll give no quarter no sense of respite,
just another iron bar to seal in the night.
even at your parties, air so thick you can feel,
not a moment of peace could a deaf man steal.
no princess, no dragon, no good and no bad,
just a shallow dirt grave full of the you you never had.
no bard at the pub, no thresh for the flue,
your eyes speak of times with the LED blue.
this thing is a corpse i poke with my stick,
declaring it dead is the phrase that i pick.
