Wounded at the thought,

And stiffled by a non answer

Brass left untarnished,

Turns to chrome in the end.

The wind has an acrid smell,

Like the embers burning in hell.

But heaven awaits when all is done,

No need of a filibuster at Peter's gate.

Will the robes of the justices,

Sound a death knell in the fields.

Where only one crop is planted,

Where there used to be three.

I'm not a farmer or own a horse,

But sometimes my throat is dry.

The medication they give me,

Is the dawn of live or die.