You can be shredded up by anything.
While rose and blood still color up the earth
There always will be certain times that bring
Good things that are not merely things of worth.

My heart is joltings, or merely reprieve
From more calculable intervals. Such great
Cenotaphs rise for those who got no leave
From going out against the obstinate.

The rocket be a symbol. Let it fly
And go when all its din is done on high
A senile flaccid tubulet dumbed to fall

On men who launch it... Just the fucking thing
A kid finds on the ground, is what I sing.
To hear the weird old pyrotechnics call.

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