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He flaunts a song in death and
I hear his bothered calls from the depths of
Muted caverns. He gathers strength
From frantic women hurrying to catch him
From the same flowers of
Marshes and rivers, virtuous—

Consider this: the shallow banks of river-bend
Mansions where politicians would like to
Raise toasts in the moonlight,
The tea cozies of Mummy and those who try to
Chant over the crickets and Orpheus. They call for
A new leader in protest and not looking back at
Yellow school buses and flowered quays years past—
The color is in the champagne, and ghastly
Amidst moonlight and jazz trumpets.