They are met once again
To beat drums of confusion
Tattooes of mediocrity
They are met once again
The new cow to lead
To the cyclic slaughterhouse
Where the blood of the last
Yet stinks to skies
Awash with the stench
Of decay and corruption.

So they come and go
Bad dreams, phantoms
In the morning mist
Meteors of a dark sky
Offal at the desecrated shrine
Still they come and go

We welcome them from rooftops
Raucous at each approach
And departure, praise-singing now
Cursing loudly later
Impious votaries of an alien sect
At whom damnation shrieks with wild delight.


Silence Would Be Treason Copyright © 2018 by Íde Corley; Helen Fallon; and Laurence Cox. All Rights Reserved.

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