.   .   .

To those in their defensive crouch
Who hurl damnation from the couch
Who take smug comfort in their creeds
Exonerated from their deeds
Who safely watch unfolding doom
Within an air-conditioned room
Who excavate the narrow road
And pile on load on load on load
To make the burdened rebels feel
The wage of sin without appeal
Who hope to add one final woe
A curt and bleak “I told you so”
Before they watch the fire show—

Please pardon me if I don’t go.

.   .   .



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