To use your mind
Like a mill stone to grind
	Chaff.

You polish it
And with your warped wit
	Laugh

At your torso,
Prostrate where the crow”
	Falls

On such kind hearts
As its God imparts”
	Calls,

And claps its wings
Till the tumult brings
	More

Black minutemen
To revive again
	War

At little cost
They cry for the lost
	Head

And seek their prize
Till the evening sky's
	Red.