While I watch a game
Of stabbing steel and
Snapping necks twisting
With a sound of dry leaves
Underfoot, I wonder just
What we have become.
No longer the mighty judges
Are we, nothing more
Than a howling audience,
Screaming for the fatal
Blow. Pacifists may weep
For all the good the
Silence brings, but I
Have one thing to yell
Over the expectant hush:
Lord of the Flies ain’t
Got nothing on us.
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