Gold dust in what’s become a bathtub, a rhyme for greater peace
In polls and averages on the Great Black Board, a greater rôle
For what must pass for city life and incarnations of the nation’s worthy goals
For all those married folks. No myths this time round, no words to please
The multitudes; no gilded maps and travelogues to find the Golden Fleece
And guide constituent parts to sums much greater than the whole.
Another bank dissolves and yet another twisted shore must fold
Before the revelation to the public where the ends are guaranteed at least
A fighting chance before deceit and means unfurl and Rome dissolves
Once more into yet another unexpected thousand-year repeat
In all its arrogance. The latter-day recordings of a second darkest age
For schoolboys must be registered to decipher on a dog-eared history page
Of retrospection and contempt of how such apathy and lethargy must leach
From purple markets’ majesties within the brew to miles to go before we weep.