So the march goes on, despite the storm
that sheaths the streets of steam and dust,
and the nipples of umbrellas leak
Sweet rain on melodies of those who mourn.
Who is it that we send away,
In caskets of fern and willow blue?
Another touched by flame and needle
The yellow sick line our bayou.
The rest, they draw, as a two-tongued sword
This dry decanter, an empty toast
To those who paid the price of poison
To those whose paper lies cost them the most.
This winter parade, weaves its warning
Along Saint Claude, the cardboard pleas
of those whose honey has run dry,
Beg for shelter from fallen trees .
Will they hear us, blinded worms,
Through the junk that lines their teeth?
Does the message pound from us, or
Does it rise from underneath?
Thus the trudge goes on, through wounded streets
the pale surrender, flags of torn sheets
And if they lay their weapons down
may they march, with us, through our sick town.