there is no hope beyond the upper bound
of normal understanding where all mirth
fades into nonsense decent folk of worth
demand some movement onto higher ground
and are not angered at the empty sound
of foolish entities announcing birth
into a world of vacancy and dearth
of absence both astounding and profound
so when we choose against the very grain
of normal love and standardizing time
there is a point when each must hold the line
reject all silly choices and the stain
that comes when every turn must lead to crime
instead look up and note the noble sign

so many long to have a golden king
for certainties amid the roil and noise
and yet won't listen when the sweet doves sing

in urgent times  there is nothing to bring
that will secure against what most annoys
so many long to have a golden king

as being for now the most important thing
to guarantee the safety of their joys
and yet won't listen when the sweet doves sing

of better hours when they were on the wing
and deadly forces were not kept as toys
so many long to have a golden king

who do not wish their liberty to fling
so cavalierly with such little poise
and yet won't listen when the sweet doves sing

since all the world is trapped inside one ring
and none can tell just what the rest enjoys
so many long to have a golden king
and yet won't listen when the sweet doves sing

where no one sits there’s no reason to wait
yet there are many who with sharp regard
look in the distance with eyes that are hard
to see what they can measure of the gait
or bearing of the folk whose heavy freight
will end like all things in the somber yard
together with the honest and disbarred
and all that we can do is blame dull fate
our vision does not fail yet when we glance
outside the window matters not so bold
will move us not to hope but unto ire
for what we know seems ruled by evil chance
while brilliant sunshine does nothing to cold
since long ago each chose to bank the fire

behind the house we see the jonquils blow
in the mild air when winter seems a lie
it is the time for all good things to grow

outside the breezes do not cease to flow
and clouds are scudding grey across the sky
behind the house we see the jonquils blow

so clearly yellow do those flowers show
they banish dullness and we can descry
it is the time for all good things to grow

life is so eager to get up and go
so energetic it could almost fly
behind the house we see the jonquils blow

returning from their sleep as if they know
we long for colour to delight each eye
it is the time for all good things to grow

in proper order this is nature's show
we only guide it then we smile and sigh
behind the house we see the jonquils blow
it is the time for all good things to grow

the forest echoes when the mahoe falls
tall is the tree and strong deep is its root
at end of day even the staunchest bawls

honest men speak against all that appalls
their work is constant though most rare its fruit
the forest echoes when the mahoe falls

for just one instant fools delay their brawls
and bow their heads honour may touch the brute
at end of day even the staunchest bawls

at loss of friend we make our little calls
shed our few tears and learn it's absolute
the forest echoes when the mahoe falls

whether in calmness of the lecture-halls
or broadcasting to folk on their commute
at end of day even the staunchest bawls

knowing the silence that finally hauls
his voice away we cannot refute
the forest echoes when the mahoe falls
at end of day even the staunchest bawls

steam on the mountain road just after dark
we've brought our geyser with us this one time
and laughter in the moment seems a crime
which choice is easy though the answer's stark
you have to wait until the proper bark
get back inside and get back on the climb
when you get home you will wash off the grime
and wonder why the effort left no mark
we pass those places where the words of craft
are spoken gently where old wisdom sits
and are not moved we can no longer stay
safe in our skins to do that now is daft
instead we joke and battle with our wits
knowing that others follow in our way

with what fresh words of choice or soft regret
are we to fight our battles now that time
has tolled against us the dull weight of grime
obscures our vision but no sort of debt
to past or future could hurt or abet
the heart of purpose as we seek to climb
beyond this moment past the normal slime
where there is neither  injury nor fret
you see us crawling searching for one spark
of ordinary kindness that might lead
the normal person from their weary plight
relieve our hearts from burden of the dark
reward with honour the most worthy deed
and grant assurance of a renewed light

we are not measured rightly by good chance
our hopes are limitless but not our skin
there are no victors ever at this dance

they told us this was the time to advance
that all the old faults had been cast in bin
we are not measured rightly by good chance

our wounds will never let us jump or prance
and when we are related we're not kin
there are no victors ever at this dance

since it's a game whose players can enhance
their virtues best by adding to the din
we are not measured rightly by good chance

nor yet permitted to take up a stance
above the fray our only hope is sin
there are no victors ever at this dance

but there are still fools who think it romance
and who believe that there's a prize to win
we are not measured rightly by good chance
there are no victors ever at this dance

these are the laws with which all must comply
within the bounds not just of this one state
but under all the norms of human freight
as though we were not only passing by
like winter birds up in the cloudless sky
each on its way towards a waiting mate
with certain knowledge of the coming date
true clarity of vision in each eye
so duty comes upon us and we weep
for all those moments when we could not stand
in proper place right by the open door
where ordinary watchers just might keep
a welcome jug of water close to hand
and for the hungry perhaps something more

wisdom is but sharp experience read
against the peal of years and given weight
still by the time it matters we are dead

so all your chiding some good thought has bred
within each mind before the hour turns late
wisdom is but sharp experience read

in the cold pages of the tale of dread
as drear hours pass until we reach the gate
still by the time it matters we are dead

and all good judgment given up and fled
since it is past all moment for debate
wisdom is but sharp experience read

as text to the dark music in each head
that echoes in deep tones against the slate
still by the time it matters we are dead

therefore avoiding all those who have fled
into the perils of a different state
wisdom is but sharp experience read
still by the time it matters we are dead

some mention made then must the silence fall
upon the envies that have held us late
within the barrier lacking all freight
of decency or commerce but the tall
protectors of our honour lightly call
on such devotion as the wise relate
in their long histories and we do not state
a better truth the pain belongs to all
so what is earned after the sacrifice
no one regards as worthy of our toil
since it has fallen from no awesome height
but rather we are told that the full price
is not a matter for complaint or broil
but can be settled in a day and night

what's given forth may come out true
we lose at first just so we learn
the complex tricks and in our turn

teach each young one to pay their due
expend a little and discern
what's given forth may come out true

each change will mean the world made new
by other hands and thus we yearn
to see the old fires once more burn
what's given forth may come out true

we did not ask for change but still it came
with waving banner and in angry shout
for then our people showed not calm nor tame
but like a flood after long years of drought
that was the moment when the word was rage
that marked the turning of the ancient page
when cities smouldered and when fields were burned
governors fled and parliaments adjourned
in such a time the truth must come in play
the sacred hour of those who once were spurned
who come from darkness into proper day

no one expects the world will stay the same
nor that the light will once again go out
now that all eyes have seen its cheery flame
and minds have been resolved from fear and doubt
by understanding of the proper wage
now to be gained and nothing will assuage
the incensed feelings of the hearts that turned
truly to freedom as the wild waves churned
on the bright shore and we saw the array
of those once vanished who had now returned
who come from darkness into proper day

the story now is not a silly game
nor is it simply nonsense that we spout
about the ending of all hate and shame
now that the old injustice is thrown out
and a new order walks upon the stage
when ordinary folk may shape the age
a better land may some day be discerned
where each achieves the honest pay they earned
and plain respect when their dark hair turns grey
both simple things as far as we're concerned
who come from darkness into proper day

prince we apologise you were interned
your titles stripped and your petitions spurned
your words ignored and servants gone away
but we are with some other things concerned
who come from darkness into proper day

in hidden corner there's a place for sleep
you know it well and will come out to play
in your good time meanwhile you'll let me keep
my larger vigils on this cloudy day
seeking the wisdoms of a time of pain
with half an eye cocked for the coming rain
and senses focused on approaching night
(we know it's coming though the day is bright)
hands put together purpose that is kind
while every heart is poised for instant flight
into the bright dominion of the mind

the lives of people never seem so deep
as feline hungers in their simple way
you are the wanderers and we the sheep
our normal tasks will seem to your delay
from urgent hunger and there is no gain
from what we're doing that seems to you plain
it does not come within your line of sight
provides you nothing of your household right
the sort of thing that is best left behind
lest it should bring a darkness or a blight
into the bright dominion of the mind

your eye is focused on the things that creep
across the yard that you would wish to slay
we know this and for fortune will not weep
but wonder at the words you'd like to say
if speech were given and you could complain
at being bound in by such a golden chain
as if we punished your for our delight
and thought your chiding visions could indict
our cruelty in keeping you confined
but see you move with happy summer light
into the bright dominion of the mind

prince you might think this subject impolite
and such debate is not the best to cite
yet we must take the pathways that we find
from your dark rule of chaos and old night
into the bright dominion of the mind

no evidence the world is bent in shape
a bluish globe with wooly white of cloud
the mountains form a contrast sharp and proud
against the sea we note the golden cape
while in the sky dark birds seem to escape
the planetary force while winds are loud
above the foam and yet we are uncowed
though eyes are open and all mouths agape
there is a reason we have reached this place
and taken stock at the appropriate time
for our authority to be compelled
into new channels and a different space
with better thought and clearer paradigm
now that the party’s over and trial’s held

cliff-dwelling swallows in the dryer vent
are a connection that we have to face
between free nature and the harsh rat race
at intersection of domestic content
where meaning  action symbol and intent
all come together in a single place
as bird and woman each concede a space
and neither knows just what the other meant
the niche that out of nature has been set
for me to watch as swallows make their home
is given proper purpose by the flight
of urgent swallows leaving as the wet
signals of springtime depart from the dome
of bluing sky and cheer  me by the sight

no echo now but in the dull grey light
see passing birds that pause and watch us feed
our satiated faces lacking need
or understanding in their urgent flight
of what exactly is the human plight
or when our hunger turns into stark greed
the passerine just seeks an errant seed
and a safe place where it can spend the night
the human does not show the passing bird
this truth of life that everything's the same
since all of us make up a single cast
we're subject each of us to one hard word
as players in the sole eternal game
each doomed to pass in time into the past

across the silences these words are true
that answer sorrow with a worthy smile
but will not pause to soften nor revile
your efforts nor the feelings that are due
this passing day what is it we review
among the many sights that might beguile
each voyager who reaches this last mile
is that the known provides us with a clue
some would be said to answer that the day
is not sufficient for all that we need
but we must struggle onwards into night
actors and viewers of the self-same play
not certain if our desperation’s greed
but ever hopeful we can get things right

so what disrupts requires that we select
with all due art the silver from the dross
taking no notice of what's on the boss
nor even caring truth must have effect
while each must go as their own hearts direct
with grant of knowledge given in the gloss
by those who count the plus side as a loss
for what we had is gone naught will connect
into the afternoon the buzzards plunge
upon the corpse of wisdom is their feast
where all is ended save the scent of dung
here is a sight that nothing could expunge
when hope and virtue have together ceased
and only curses rise from every tongue

in the beginning we counted no cost
but went rejoicing into the warm rain
so now more grimly we face what we've lost

so many choices into the mix tossed
almost at random it all seemed so plain
in the beginning we counted no cost

as being worth waiting no text was glossed
for hidden messages all was just gain
so now more grimly we face what we've lost

a world more troubled a future star-crossed
no brilliant thoughts emerging from each brain
in the beginning we counted no cost

instead we are the ones who now are bossed
ordered about and marked with a sad stain
so now more grimly we face what we've lost

knowing that morning will see the first frost
that signals a new winter with its pain
in the beginning we counted no cost
so now more grimly we face what we've lost

this is the choice that we defy the night
for a short time and keep alive a spark
timid perhaps but worthy to remark
a simple thing of note to honest sight
rejection of the vast kingdom of blight
a wisdom that calls on us to skylark
with laughter to ignore the final dark
empowering the fragile human light
each one is a beginning we are told
to be recorded and to be advised
of what's around below and what's above
to find out what is clay and what true gold
what's best admired and what's best despised
the fruit of all our hope and all our love

all of our memories slip out through the net
fearsome grandmothers will not let us hide
the truth is bound up tightly with regret

when pain of living has us most upset
then we hear loudest voices that deride
all of  our memories slip out through the net

leaving behind just the fury and fret
the shouts of anger and the words that chide
the truth is bound up tightly with regret

no matter what the lie or epithet
effects of injury won't be denied
all of our memories slip out through the net

so we are trapped knowing we cannot let
our hearts be opened to the other side
the truth is bound up tightly with regret

for all we knew still the true course was set
from the beginning by our manic pride
all of our memories slip out through the net
the truth is bound up tightly with regret

where crossing rivers can be made to count
against the value of all we hold dear
in spite of all that’s known at the frontier
where hope and learning are held paramount
no one would wait on those who’d dare remount
for the long journey of the pioneer
made by the awkward and the most sincere
who have their truths to keep and to recount
no voyage matters this at last we learn
except to those who never need the map
the ones excepted from each changing trend
those are the masters who will always yearn
to hear our answer yet not give a rap
since all must come out equal in the end

dry grass thin stubble in late summer's heat
reflaring here and there to darker green
in mottled shade there's no one to be seen
a heavy silence rules upon the street
we crave completion seek the upward beat
of ravens' wings demand the vision keen
of tropic vultures we release our spleen
on hapless ears but then we must retreat
in each cool cave the music cannot fail
to guard against the horror of bright day
while keeping hearts in balance from the strain
of sensing that there's more to the true tale
as yet unheralded in what you say
but for the moment we must count the gain

in february when there should be frost
bright daffodils present in yellow bloom
such firm rejection of the winter gloom

it makes me smile not all the past is lost
and there are things that death will not consume
in february when there should be frost

we look on beauty and don't count the cost
of what it means to have full life resume
but take each step and see beyond the doom
in february when there should be frost

despair embodied in dark winter rain
through fitful sleep in absence of all dream
to wake pursuing the first pallid gleam
within a world marked by the human stain
there's not one thing that's simple clear or plain
nothing that honest living might redeem
from what we suffer at the last extreme
paid for in horror and in stabbing pain
there's no deliverance from what we are
nor is it chosen freely in the sun
in a light-hearted moment with a smile
by each of us no favourable star
can serve to light our steps on homeward run
nor gleam and brighten on the final mile

dead leaves piled up in the slow steady rain
their reds and yellows dull on the dark ground
so much of sorrow is already plain

to us who listen as the boughs complain
at the winds passage with a sighing sound
dead leaves piled up in the slow steady rain

are one more sign of life's passing campaign
against eternity this is one round
so much of sorrow is already plain

and we're the losers since we never gain
a single inch nor hope for a rebound
dead leaves piled up in the slow steady rain

are but the markers of our lost terrain
someone will come and heap them in a mound
so much of sorrow is already plain

it is reality nothing arcane
our normal vista not a thing profound
dead leaves piled up in the slow steady rain
so much of sorrow is already plain

our meanings come from choices handed down
by those who built the towers and raised the sky
the folk who farmed the fields and filled the town
who'd made the horrid trip and did not die
their long hope was back to lost home to fly
but all the horrors made their footsteps slow
while home was lost in the far eastern glow
they had their duties and their constant care
and all the many pains we cannot know
all changed with dessalines at vertières

so much depends upon a simple frown
a gesture or a winking of the eye
to  make disaster or to grant renown
turn all our wishes into one great lie
or  send us each to the last great good-bye
by means of one most massive mortal blow
that bursts the normal cheery human flow
and sends us hurtling to the upper air
until that moment all had seemed too slow
all changed with dessalines at vertières

the human is a move from verb to noun
a chance to prove that we can best rely
upon the one who could not play the clown
but was the stalwart soul who did not cry
under the lash but rather chose to fly
with the fresh dawn and the new morning glow
the day of history when all would know
just what we were and how much we would dare
to do when we came up from down below
all changed with dessalines at vertières

prince you have heard your men were far too slow
to face our wrath and take the angry blow
that meant our freedom in the open air
do not be angry for you could not know
the outcome would be more than a tableau
all changed with dessalines at vertières

when the past does not fade and disappear
we're forced to confront it to face the pain
of solid memory to feel all again
within each mind something in the dull air
weighs down upon us with the weight of care
while every face reflects the groaning strain
and total terror that we can see plain
when nothing's left to mankind but raw fear
the once safe garden now becomes a cage
by our own efforts  for we are so dense
we cannot see the function of a wall
is to hold in not just to keep out rage
that justice functions better as defence
and isolation leads to the last fall

promise it seems is cloaked in a dull grey
to hide from us the honesty that's due
on thus cool morning so the normal view
is calmer now and what it might convey
about our place this ordinary day
is fully straight and not so sharp askew
as when the sky evanishing to blue
turns all to summer in a sudden way
promise achieved is not all we desire
once we have reached the goal and found it cold
past our endurance but still a-glitter
with intimations of some inner fire
when all that's there is falsity of gold
so that the staunchest leaves full bitter

the echo of the horror goes away
leaving behind this memory of shock
a break in time not noted by the clock
while passing cloud has covered up the ray
we are not certain yet this is full day
so we come here and place our hearts in dock
for your perusal so that you might mock
or press us hard or even probe and slay
the signal here is of a subtle sort
made for discernment by an elder eye
thus nor for wasting on our hasty youth
who are on this day in another court
beneath a vision of a different sky
but still must learn there is a single truth

how fresh the world was complex and still strange
as we crossed shark-filled seas with little thought
of what bright magics in the clouds were caught
or what the cities past the mountain range
would have for us instead we sought the grange
the country quiet where oldest rules were taught
in plainest movement from old is to ought
from then to now where all we did was change
into clear selves who know the middle way
by just refinement of that youthful choice
made all rejoicing under bluest sky
for we who learn the paths and tracks of day
know it's no simple thing to have a voice
and far more difficult to keep an eye

whatever happens there is no regret
for tempests that  have shredded new-leaved trees
awakening the youthful from their ease
into a present that is all upset
where each is cast at once deep into debt
not knowing whom to help nor whom to please
frozen in place by the harsh sky's decrees
and driven only to hard fear and fret
still there are signs that we have not been told
all that we need in order to get by
the simple passage of each normal plight
instead we're warned to be urgent and bold
focus inhuman danger in the eye
but not be lured by any trick of light

outside the winter storm is pelting down
with ancient power recalling us to true
vision of our places so then we rue
both the larger anger and the lesser frown
each gout of pressure under which we drown
unheeded here withheld from public view
still grasping for some force that would renew
each broken heart and smile at each sad clown
tonight we’re promised snow that will not stick
to the warm ground and ice that will not chill
for any length of time the naked skin
yet winter ‘s taking only the first lick
at these soft hides there’s still much room for ill
since we are in a race the clock must win

crescent moon sharp upon the plate of sky
one hour before the lazy winter sun
signal that my long day is well begun
with clarity that shows the air is dry
and cold at this still moment no birds fly
while urgent humans have the need to run
up the dark street for health instead of fun
as if the end was one they could defy
out to the world we go each blessed day
to find our pain and reach another dark
of calm oblivion and short time of rest
all the time knowing that we've lost our way
been baffled and come short of the true mark
in our misunderstanding of the test

the nightly croaking from the pond
recalls another time and place
the sounds do not quite correspond
but have an equal sort of grace

what's winter here has turned so mild
that we can see the forceful green
reminder of the nearby wild
just inches past the window screen

those arguments that we have made
regarding mother nature's pain
seem all at once a sad charade
as weeds spring up after the rain

what we have learnt is very clear
about the cycles in their course
of tropic or of temperate year
they have the same gigantic force

the frogs that croak in pond or tree
ignoring us proclaiming life
for their short passage do live free
and teach us something about strife

in the bright morning under the free sun
all are now equal each of us may stand
glad in the knowledge that the lash is done

the times are over when we had to run
justice has entered where it once was banned
in the the bright morning under the free sun

a different type of journey has begun
when no one has the right of sole command
glad in the knowledge that the lash is done

we look around and see that we have won
so very much that all our words seem bland
in the bright morning under the free sun

what will become of us is known to none
but t we are ready and we understand
gland in the knowledge that the lash is done

and we have reached the point where everyone
must pause to sing then claim as theirs the land
in the bright morning under the free sun
glad in the knowledge that the lash is done

no matter what the words remain the same
echoing blandly down the aching years
our beast once wild has now turned safely tame

your voice is one that could with depth proclaim
ending to hurt and to the weight of fears
no matter what the words remain the same

as when we started infants in the game
certain that we'd be the new cavaliers
our beast once wild has now turned safely tame

and we have come despite the threat of shame
to know the meaning of so many tears
no matter what the words remain the same

still they are uttered out of need for blame
while horror is doled out in lavish shares
our beast once wild has not turned safely tame

and cowers uncertain of the fading flame
as each who waits at last wails and despairs
no matter what the words remain the same
our beast once wild has now turned safely tame

the echoes never cease in time
so we are stuck on the cliff face
losers without redeeming grace


those farts that in primordial slime
began old evolution's race
(the echoes never cease in time)


now seem to us divine sublime
but were just stinks in some dark place
far from the light or so we trace
the echoes never cease in time

where all the edges reach into the heart
are no clear corners nor a single sign
that time is changing the dividing line
is never crossed yet all are kept apart
by the hard means of some still arcane art
which the most foolish will insist divine
or claim as kindly warm tender benign
although they bleed from entry of the dart
we're far into the strange realm of the blind
where all the rules evil and perverse
and every bullet seems to find its mark
dead centre but the lying human mind
insists reality can't be adverse
that all is light down here deep in the dark

what’s left unknown weighs down  until we bleat
in rage and fear then leave off being bold
for better nights and stories wiser told
as those with longer practice wait the fleet
leaving the late ones to patrol the street
in angry silence so while it is cold
as the dew rises and the night turns old
the urgent and the foolish still may meet
this is the game of rats that always prey
upon the leavings that once made for joy
cast away now beneath the starless sky
as every denizen flees from the day
in certainty that even truth’s a toy
and honour turns out just another lie

no echoes but the silence is so loud
that we are caught between the dark and pain
of interrupted morning once again
when rushing with all ants in the huge crowd
each is obliged to do what is allowed
take up the load and soak in the old stain
just hope that we are moving with the grain
and all the while refrain from being proud
those are the rules and they were clearly made
beyond the veil since they’re a simple law
meant to apply in every human course
until recall of all our deeds shall fail
then in good time we’ll offer up the flaw
leaving the payment to a lesser force

no meaning in these texts that is not bright
even in caverns that have known no sun
nor any warming heat since world begun
their sense is clarity their essence light
each word is set to open up in flight
as avian wisdom that we could not shun
even rock-bound its glories seem to stun
the wary heart with knowledge of the right
so having learnt a simple truth we turn
our faces to the task that now seems plain
to uncurl horrors and restore the chief
dependency of each old mind to earn
the wages of such learning once again
in this cold season of the fallen leaf

where fallen angles now define true space
in steady motion of my dull dead blood
the quantity of which threatens to flood

beyond proper confine without such grace
as is expected in these times of mud
where fallen angles now define true space

our acts come under limits we can trace
out of the silence through each heavy thud
of closing vision as hope turns to dud
where fallen angles now define true space

in the damp corner of the morning yard

where grey and quiet many secrets wait

this is the time when nature stand unbarred



not yet for us is life or fortune marred

by force of life or family or state

in the damp corner of the morning yard



where not a bird or beast now stands on guard

all fast asleep and seeming just to wait

this is the time when nature stands unbarred



to wary eyes and life seems not so hard

as we are told and we may now create

in the damp corner of the morning yard



a better world with choices not so hard

with sweeter wisdom and a kinder fate

this is the time when nature stands unbarred



one lucid moment before light is marred

and all our knowledges begin to grate

in the damp corner of the morning yard

this is the time when nature stands unbarred

here is a dragon that breathes golden fire
burning a message across the dull sky
telling us all that fate may be a liar

although we are the ones who still aspire
to honour in a world where all seems dry
here is a dragon that breathes golden fire

a vision that combines beauty and ire
reminder that some final truth is nigh
telling us all that fate may be a liar

that in the end both pain and joy are higher
than we expect or might ask to supply
here is a dragon that breathes golden fire

a mark of fear but still it is not dire
there's more above than we know to espy
telling us all that fate may be a liar

that is the burden of the early crier
who warns that those who care will come to die
here is a dragon that breathes golden fire
telling us all that fate may be a liar

so now we listen for the coming rain
deceived by breezes knowing the moist air
is filled with promise and that it must bear
more than mere fruitfulness that much is plain
as we await the changes and explain
to eager watchers just how much our care
has been to guard lest each of them despair
and hold inside the messages of pain
this is the boundary beyond which none
but foolish folk will venture without charts
yet we have come here eager to press on
being certain now that this game has been won
by each of us through mastery of arts
that gave us certainty and have not gone

running into darkness and the grey wall
in the strange quicksand which is some dark trap
you have no choice you must cry out and fall

yet this is not the time for you to bawl
at life's injustice and go off the map
running into darkness and the grey wall

with none to hear as the hard sun stands tall
you have the strength to go another lap
you have no choice you must cry out and fall

but will get up though none may hear your call
since there is still a way out of the crap
running into darkness and the grey wall

even though light itself may seem to maul
your heart and no one ever gives a rap
you have no choice you must cry out and fall

struggle again to show you have the gall
to face down all the ravages of hap
running into darkness and the grey wall
you have no choice  you must cry out and fall

who saw the flame and saw us put it out
was not the first but fell soon into line
marching in order that was the design
both for the wayward and the most devout
seemingly magic but we dare to pout
noting this sourness far from the divine
where modern forces just cannot combine
and older strength no longer is so stout
assert what's true in spite of all this heat
it will not matter no one will be told
the proper story what is is to fail
in our sad hour this token of defeat
is valued more than coin of hoarded gold
while honesty remains so long on sale

our duty is to rectify the names
and ranks of those who serve and guide the state
take out the waste and cast in in the flames

the one who praises is the one who blames
so both should suffer an immediate fate
our duty is to rectify the names

remove the wrong assess all proper claims
while honouring those who patiently wait
take out the waste and cast it in the flames

not for us gaudy masks of knights and dames
we learnt our service how to clean each plate
our duty is to rectify the names

to take account of glories and of shames
of who was early and who coming late
take out the waste and cast it in the flames

we have no time for silly childish games
nor patience for discussion and debate
our duty is to rectify the names
take out the waste and cast it in the flames