Epitaph For An Epoch Poem by Neil Crawford

To whom we bequeath this planet's toil,
don't be like us, we were the worst,
we were the butcher and the meat,
hooked in the window, bleached of shame.

Our gaze averted from the slaughter's rite
was proof of our sincerity, we mouthed'love'
with our hemlock lips and shifted places
in the poor doomed queue.

Innumerable massacres were no omen to us,
we shrugged at the given order,
the arena was swept of innocent's pleas,
our ears stopped with History's corrosive wool.