Of drafts and draws
To give the others the squeeze
And then the slip
In knots of condemnation
Webbed like a lace
That can be blown like birthday cake,
The laughter at the shame
Somehow the fuel
For further power moves
To wrench control of some detail,
Some small remote console.
But the dogs lie down to sleep
And the shame just arrives like fleas
As morning beckons like a train.
There's only so many ways
The rooster comb
Can brush the corpse's hair
And there's only so many beers
In the fridge
And none of them are cold.
All battles have already been fought and lost,
All winners will be beaten with a stick.
