'Glory be, to the tasteless future' When you are done tearing down the walls that blood of others' built, Crumbling the foundations laid down by your fathers' fathers and theirs. When you are done razing the church halls to the ashes of forgotten past, The values that took generations to chisel, now cremated in your denialism. When you are done opening the gates for enemies to mingle with the traducers within, The flowers that once under our sun grew, trampled, never again to bloom. Then, as your paltry neck is being tightened, and your eyes popping out staring at the jeering crowd, gathered to watch you dance your last dance under the arbour of the big oak tree. From whence an acorn once used to fall to the delight of a squirrel or two Now a rope hangs strong to deliver justice to whom dare squeak dissent. Then, perhaps then, you will come to realise that what took so long to build, which you helped demolish, was not so bad now that it is your turn to say goodbye. Why me?