In the kingdom of Idiots
They are endowed with Everything, But on trays of frailty, They trade their image, That squeezed-dried image Left now after a well-threshed encounter. They have shame left as their dignity Even that is untenable Keenly contested by erudite slippery folks Who grab the lion by the tail because it is the safest to touch. They change in mid-air, Their weary garment of age Worn yesterday and before Never minding the call for landing. They are contented And set afoot black military That shoot to kill The opinions of lettered persons Converting to zero, the finesse of positions Never minding the pollution of their poision Nor the death it causes Such is the arder which plows their vineyard.