The great call at midnight:
‘Will the throaty pitch and guffaw
be the same for the thousand years coming?’
If it’s to be such,
Please, then let us all
turn to nothingness at this moment.
Nothing new does it seem:
The chorus behind the throaty
noise seems to be the same foolish dream.
Such a huge and godly definition
given to the change,
Most forgettable is which,
but parroted now with childish rage.
Godliness has been contrived out of it,
I’m afraid it will bear the end same;
Revered now most formally,
Misunderstood and negated afterwards,
In all practices which
the sun will uncover at the dawn.
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