Watching the men,
the boys
catching the
streetcars to the Front,
antique rifles over
their shoulders
and half a dozen
cartridges in a pocket
cigarettes all,
propped behind an ear
Believers all,
idealists all
fools all, halfway
to dead already
the harvest is taken
and lost,
and the causa is
lost with it
And reading about
the end
of the rule of law,
of the ruler
daring them to do
something
about it.
And what the hell is
there but
idealism
why live and die
detached and
cynical
There’s a storm on
the edge
of tomorrow, blowing
hard
and it’s getting
on towards
time to stand,
time to lie
Does the streetcar
run nearby?
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