People preaching sing-song things; Those who write of love To not know it still. Murderers of the souls of kings; Those who write, erase, and rewrite Eternally, and without remorse; Who rest on sandy beaches In long pants and cloaks. This lousy universe to mend. All descending forces drag us Down into the rancid depths: Scorn, Sloth, Shame. On the heavy morning, Lies disperse to prideful sockets, Where currents overreach The boundaries of sanity. To glance into regret. It is a wonderful calamity; This sorry, bleeding existence. But what a happy calm to live it in.