The Usual
The stink. The plink and clink, so rinky-dink,
Our winkless cries went down the kitch’n sink.
Oh, strum und drang. D’you know what you’ve done?
No time to weep, the trumpet calls us to — run!
And yet you pop and sigh in glee: my woe.
Your mind in the clang of madness, in angry throes-
No part is left of a once and feral heart,
No soul to honor love, of the deepest sort.
-E. Carere
