Hereafter, we've lived the last few days
none of ours want to touch the shovel nor the spade,
It's best we stay loyal, here in the light brigade.
Six feet is deep enough for anyone, one can hope
signing the cross to pack the dirt to stifle the ticking heartbeats
One hundred hours of bootlaces and worm-tread: we were born to breathe such feats.

We're doing God's worst business.
We are the sausage makers; we are the organ grinders for nickels on the dollar. 
people have been buying themselves for years in trust of our daggerbacked god.
High in iron, low in humanity: profane food for profane mouths, 
fever-dreambt with rationality, sailed to us on darkened clouds.