Pomp and Present Circumstance

Bad poets write the cowardly words.
Bolshevik importunings crowd the square:
"Hitler, fascisti, retrograde!"
                       Crow the opiated opinion-makers,
Loudly lulling "the masses."

Children doodle decapitated presidents
Under the mildly smiling instructress
                        Stitched drip by drip
                        To the federal nipple.
                             
Witticisms stripped to shitticisms.

"The world is not as once it was!"
Cry the fanged bunglers
Sullenly sipping tomato puree
Where once the blood had come
             fast and rich and fauceted.
             
Fighting a ragtag rearguard action for culture,
No fine-spun sensibilities appear
              Delicate as Charlotte's web,
As human as rumor

That clotted democracy yet,
Matted and mottled with muds, might yet,
               Yet might be, might still be
               "Some Pig."