The inverted bodies hang themselves, Interpenetrated, peeled For us to write riven songs upon their skins! Sullied sufferers hang themselves from a glass cross 200 floors toward heaven. Bitter Christs! Loudly you fly from flames to the asphalt, Absent-minded of your mission: Your religion has not yet arisen. We may yet decide to be extinguished. The gossipy mendacity of the Left Aligning with bin Ladens To win the miniaturized Bickerfest with the neighbor; neighbor Same as them, hung from the cross the same. Orange flares Line the flyway to infinity Or incineration. Coda Here's a brave man, indifferent to kicks, Somber under DC's browning ferns, Ready to kill the willful killers And treat his countrymen, confused As the winter-wind infused weathervane Like a drunken beloved.