Seven Days In November Poem by Ralph Vaughan

The day of anointing looms as a disc of bronze;
Smoke rises from myriad cities,
Habitations of jackals and fine young cannibals
Who smote the midas merchants at leaping pyres,
Pierce them with envenomed quires
And dine upon their fatty flesh;
The streets of the republic's heart,
Are now rivers of lava blood,
Scoriac floods that take the weak and timid
To the yawning bog that devours as it digests not;
And the Emperor laughs upon the eternal throne secured.