by Ray Weaver
Learn to spit upon the floor
like the cheapest common whore;
There are no castles any more;
The Huns, the huns, are at the door.
Barbarians now take their chance,
Guns, as pricks, in baggy pants-
we must all learn to dance
to rhythms of their ignorance.
So burn your grammars on the grate,
grunts we need not conjugate.
We heeded warning bells too late;
a new Dark Age must be man’s fate.