Shall garish maidens in naked garrisons go forth, Weaving wheaten garlands as they march Down silhouetted avenues to make us free? Can billeted gangs of regimental bicyclists expunge The uneven levity of our solitary repose? How can all the multiples of men amend, Or lunatic doubling of naked ladies' leagues allay, The single niggling sin that haunts my breast? Politics is but passion personified, a hasty mask Strapped gas-mask grim on the gagging populace, Without so much as the pleasant pressure Of one's own fingerpainting fingerprint applied-- Swiftly slid orange along the disguising nose, The weakly-inked imprimatur of a primitive. And yet, it's among the olestra mass, we pretend, Our single fate discerns its predestined end. How much better to laugh behind a damasked hand At secret meanings whispered by the grass, Or build up a minaret but cricket-high, and lean And worship there in solo loneliness, Than to huff a bicycle among the numbered blanks, Or giggle belittled in the garlanded herd.