Now is the summer of our disconnect
made inglorious by another murdered son
and the clouds of teargas lowered upon our house.
Now are our brows bound with funeral wreaths,
our bruised arms up – don’t shoot -
with stern alarums and violent meetings,
our dreadful marches and protest measures.
Grim-visaged War has put on black face
and now, mounted on Pentagon armored steeds,
to fright the souls of fearful citizens
he capes nimbly in the city streets.