Shed the tears of lofty clouds in a bright blue sky;
pure, Groundward bound, left to do and die.
Wail the pails of pain to set them free;
dressed in the schemes of hollow charity.
Sing the fatal songs of the blessed, silent peace
of lingering death that is never allowed to cease.
For every body dead, crushed to dust,
a baby is born of endless, pious  lust.
Cry loose the sadness of endless hope
found orphaned at the end of a hangman’s rope.
Weave the fibers, me hearties, weave them right!
Is that a star? Wish I may, wish I might . . .
Exchange a hurricane of tears for an extended, trembling, golden hand!
Then Stride with purpose, blameless, shameless, through a desolated land
certain in the silent piety of a false, soul-less religion
that chains the human and sets free the pigeon.
Oh, the endless, fruitless cycle of the Circle of a Life
lived like a throat pressed against a well used knife.
And when all is quickly said and finally done
we find we’ve helped exactly . . . no one.
We find the mouths well fed and the tears dried to naught
and the soul dead and crushed under what mere charity wrought.