Ouroboros Poem by John Dowdall

This is a burning time for others, a killing time for the just, not justice, just a loathing of all the otherworld around us, who do, or do not, sing or whoop or smile, this artifice is directed to win, and lose, and judge and conserve, and protect and serve and alleged cruelty is but sweet dessert wine to bloat on, and get sick on in comfort until our own values don't infect us anymore, while more excuses for burnings are found, as the ouroboros feeds on his own tail.

So sit on your mercy seat and pronounce deft and dead handed judgements on the others five or six thousands miles away (and at home) and swill your dry acidic corrupting wine, while as a responsible authority you will always suceed, and forget Fallujah, kill and prevaricate at your leave, secure in the knowledge that the others will always be there to do the same, as the ouroboros feeds on his own tail

The sceptic sewer of hyman spewed out gut wrenching idiotic base mankind will never trample on the lawn, or get their hands on our majolica, or knick our garden gnomes because afterall the border is so expertly patrolled, so we can forget that thing back in nought three when we pulled the trigger so selflessly and Oh noble knights, in this great realm of the kings and queens, peserve us from harm, because after all the noble ouroborus will always feed on his own tail... Oh no, it's dead! ! !