|
O the Roman ambassador |
|
Was torn apart-apart by plaster |
|
And reassembled after: |
|
The 40 years of bombing: |
|
They were wild and they were crying, in the picture |
|
Where the smoke cleared |
|
Tear your body from your beard |
|
And watch as the planes burn the boats from the isle |
|
A board is a board |
|
When the pulpit meets the sword |
|
And the poet has been bored |
|
He's seen Fire and he's seen Pain |
|
And the tedium has stained, |
|
O Vergil, get your rake out there's a pastor to be pulled |
|
And 60 miles west of Rome: "I stopped some dreadful hoard." |
|
And I, I will let my body go, |
|
And when it goes and then it stinks |
|
There will be beauty in its stink |
|
And the last rays of the fink |
|
Will suppose themselves to shine |
|
Upon the corpse of Stinking Gold |
|
That has fallen into brine, |
|
Idle song. |
