Politics is the Sun, as Icarus
We fall into Poseidon's arms,
While the King lives on dry Land,
And all that walk on Tera Firma,
Must pay their Taxes, unto Death.
Now the blessed Congregation sings:
"Respect to the Dead...."
And pause to Will their Shadows echo:
"....And to the Living"
The answer comes,
Like so many feathers on the Wind.
