Bad poets write the cowardly words. Bolshevik importunings crowd the square: "Hitler, fascisti, retrograde!" Crow the opiated opinion-makers, Loudly lulling "the masses." Children doodle decapitated presidents Under the mildly smiling instructress Stitched drip by drip To the federal nipple. Witticisms stripped to shitticisms. "The world is not as once it was!" Cry the fanged bunglers Sullenly sipping tomato puree Where once the blood had come fast and rich and fauceted. Fighting a ragtag rearguard action for culture, No fine-spun sensibilities appear Delicate as Charlotte's web, As human as rumor That clotted democracy yet, Matted and mottled with muds, might yet, Yet might be, might still be "Some Pig."