The hangdog drops, they plunge in pure
For fifty feet or so at least,
And plummet to their deaths insured
As they themselves become decreased,
Destruction thus secured.
An impact would have cleansed the rust
In villas or in bovine barns,
But here like dusting dust with dust
Or bathing blood on banks of Marne
They mingle with their lust.
And pounding at the cellar door,
-Pretty line for sordid matters-
And gushing as a tidal bore
Served from filth and tin can platters
Not now what was before.
A puddle drowned in cigarettes.
I cannot see a blasted inch,
But I can see the TV set
And help endangered sister finch.
To Her I've payed my debt.