Sweet smelling sing-song drips
Hazily, clouding the air, awash
With freedom ringing nightly.
New Dawns may rise to triumphant
Chorus of bells, guns, and toil,
But most shall die week- afraid
Of their beloved cat, whiskers.
Wrong makes right in practice only
Swaying truth to deaf blind mice,
Cooing in the morning dew left
By the enchanting voice of Gods.