We think it is new. We are so, so afraid.
We think there has never been, ever been,
a thing like our thing. So, we are so afraid.
A village rapes a girl.
A village burns a man.
Here is the maelstrom.
Here is the horror.
People we like are like people we don’t.
It is our turn to live it and not know what hit us.
It is our turn for mayhem that droppeth as rain.
It is our turn to cry we are virtue’s last bastion
while mayhem and help us turn us into them.
She is twelve and they rape that girl over and over.
That collar of tire, which then becomes fire,
is fitted by many hands to one neck.
Nobody taught us. We know how to do it.
We shout and we leap, for our lives, to some standing.
It is you. No, not I. Yes and no no no. Help us.
We say that that thing
from another town over.
O tut tut. Just think.
It is ours and is us.
What is left for our thing when havoc’s in swing but to sing?