By double doors and coffin nails,
For three eternities a year
And three inept presentations:
Until nothing's personal,
You tunnel-visioned wankers;
You incompetent worms,
Who dare to intrude with the truth,
Yet don't know how to wield it
And jump at manic swipes
From a blunt scythe.

But what?
There are enough nails already, surely;
Plenty for any individual,
Perhaps sufficient for the twins too.
Maybe a clone could help, or
Maybe a crowd of sledgehammers
Thudding down through the red mist,
Turning away in a trembling hug,
Wishing for the jury to be there.

Sunny silence.
To fertilise the rolling fields
Of paranoid ignorance
Until the panic collapses the crops,
Until the fields catch fire,
Until Rome burns,
Until the fucking cows come home.