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.