Idle Songs

O the Roman amba*sador Was torn apart-apart by plaster And rea*sembled after: the 40 years of bombing: They were wild and they were crying, in the picture Where the smoke cleared Tear your body from your beard And watch as the planes burn the boats from the isle A board is a board When the pulpit meets the sword And the poet has been bored He's seen Fire and he's seen Pain And the tedium has stained, O Vergil, get your rake out there's a pastor to be pulled And 60 miles west of Rome: "I stopped some dreadful hoard." And I, I will let my body go, And when it goes and then it stinks There will be beauty in its stink And the last rays of the fink Will suppose themselves to shine Upon the corpse of Stinking Gold That has fallen into brine, Idle song.