Classic Poem

You use your mind
Like a millstone to grind
Chaff.

You polish it
And with your warped wit
Laugh

At your torso,
Prostrate where the crow
Falls

On such faint hearts
As its god imparts,
Calls,

And claps its wings
Till the tumult brings
More

Black minute-men
To revive again,
War

At little cost.
They cry for the lost
Head

And seek their prize
Till the evening sky's