Hark! Who knocks? And do the dogs of war slip past our eyes?
So helpless we, the people with our urban sprall
Cannot without a leader’s call
Summon back the dogs.
What sticks to the spiders web
Is fast forgot when the corpse is dry.
What was it? A fly?
Do flies govern spiders now?
Works a pall but a jobs a job
Or so they say those people
Who long ago forgot to dream
And watch children drown against the stream.
What change will come, and what change can?
Who dares to shift the good lord’s plan?
And wallow in the fog of possibility.
Not us. Not me. I just don’t see.
Who made it thus? By whose hand
Is it all this and that
All A to B
And then blind C.
Blaming is fun, it passes time
And gives me room to sit and stare and hate
And know that I will not be knowing after
The glass runs out of sand.
Times up, and brooding’s done for now
To be followed by activity, that unconscious thing
That puts to sleep the spectre around the corner
Who is only thought to be there.
Be there a little longer, I’ll be back soon enough to brood.