When the dead poets mobilize
at the sounding of the call
their flag will dance a massacree
its empty field untarnished
by any icon of surprise

True to their nature all of them
they'll gather on the field
after liquor, smokes and sex
a movement will arise
that demands they fix an emblem

You won't be present in the flesh
but you'll have touched so many there
that they will come to settle
on a figurine of you
image torn from drink-sodden breasts

Just before the coming of the rains
and the sounding of the bugle
that will send them to their fate
the dead poets will cheer your ghost
and paint your picture on their planes.

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