Oh to you, dear Titus,
wher'er thou must be!
Thy son is deemed now "wreckless",
and your head must now hang low.
Oh to you, dear legions
who follow in his steps.
For tis you the earth is warming
to your herb-induced entreaty.
Oh to you, Madam Marteau
pound for pound so delightful
for the masochist, Freudian Bourdeaux
and they the people will drink 'til none are insightful.
Oh to you, merry legions who follow!
with the fate of the marching lemming
o'er cliffs to a chasm that is redeeming
for the souls that are surely hollow.
And to that marching soldier
lone against the crowd
may you trudge on through eternal
thy soul to their incite never cowed!
SEV, ought-ought sept