Nature, In Giving Tears To

Like Warmed-up Cabbage Served At Each Repast, The Repetition Kills The Wretch At Last.

Already Long Ago, From When We Sold Our Vote To No Man, The People Have Abdicated Our Duties; For The People Who Once Upon A Time Handed Out Military Command, High Civil Office, Legions — Everything, Now Restrains Itself And Anxiously Hopes For Just Two Things: Bread And Circuses.

The Brief Span Of Our Poor Unhappy Life To Its Final Hour Is Hastening On; And While We Drink And Call For Gay Wreaths, Perfumes, And Young Girls, Old Age Creeps Upon Us, Unperceived.

Be Rich For Yourself And Poor To Your Friends.

Conscience, The Executioner, Shaking Her Secret Scourge.