20180927.0430

They say that Nero fiddled while Rome burned,
The Cæsar celebrating how it turned
Out when he’d gotten what he had not earned,
And something like that seems now to be true.
Yet who the fiddler hear seem not to rue
The damage that the fiddler seeks to do
In playing out of key and out of time,
But gladly dance as if the tune’s a prime
Song called for, rather than an aural crime.
Around them, as they dance, much falls to waste
And ruin, and it falls with no small haste
To offer all who would seek it a taste
Of what will come when Stupid God, supreme,
Stands over all, as does now likely seem.