That anyone can swagger, even you,
and rout the phantom foe in verbal kill,
makes valor even rarer daring do,
and honor, sweet esteem, yet rarer still.
I weary sensing men as shameless snakes
who lie and slither, rife with low-grade skill.
Reactive and mechanical, they're fakes
and hypocrites, who ham behind facade.
Their priests excuse the wreckage from their wakes,
while selling absolution, fresh from God.
Instead of using things and loving folk,
their pole-reversed philosophy's a fraud.
They worship junk, while brotherlove's a joke;
Pansophic liberation up in smoke.