Thousands lie in state: we are great
Death's hands are power
Wielders welded to its steely framed spectacles
Eyesight muddled in a maximum mixture
Of oblongs, sepia, and mise en scene
Lower case dignity appears shambolic
Follicles on the face of an otherwise clean country
(Humility dug its grave and nailed its coffin
In an undeniably clever bit of carpentry)
Assert, assume, and ambit
Third eyed claims lay spirit eggs
And suck out the yolks
May no rise become the restful us
Our success will be our ignominy without song
Mistakes without remark
And news without reporter
As the fervent fists clamp upon
All we have relinquished
Roman Ryan 