A pantheon of horror and of strife
Has risen in the heavens, given life
By those in whom great folly is run rife,
And, seeing it, too many bow them down
And hope by bowing so to win a crown
When they, instead, each make of each a clown
And, bowing, serve to each their ass present
For kicking as each one is over bent.
They do not see, and so they think it sent
From those who thought to warn them of that fate,
And so it is on those that they turn hate
As those who warn them find only too late.
Yet still must those who would give warning speak,
Though doing so may others’ anger pique.
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