lavishly languishing in a falling flag,
singularly perplexed by alterations of opinion,
our audience is senile,
our state corrupt.
Disheveled deities suspend our hopes in a vacuum
relying on our ruthless flagellation of self.
Crickets and critics alike falter in the sun,
their song enslaves our ear drums;
treat it with care this lamentation...
it may be the last.
Let all that lives cultivate our cynicism,
let us plunder this sick stage
trespass on the truth of our knowledge,
our knowledge of lies.
Our ostentatious servants are frauds,
elaborate eloquence is no excuse for folly.
Flagellation is a necessary nihilism in this
our flag of falseness.