The soldiers in your noble cause,
where is the hill on which they died;
the little men,
"the working man",
you hate that speech in "Citizen Kane".
The marchers in your soul parade,
where are the ones you resurrected;
what dove did you breathe life into,
what silver wine
runs through your veins.
The skulls inside your catacombs,
where are all your devotees;
cold blue dawn,
you love that scene in "Cabaret".
Trains on time in every station,
what good are diamonds in the storm;
fire doesn't make you righteous,
water doesn't make you right,
Ezra Pound and Mussolini
laughing through "The Last Temptation",
what good are knives
with pistols drawn—