Our Hearts Where They Rocked Our Cradle,

There Rise Her Timeless Capitals Of Empires Daily Born, Whose Plinths Are Laid At Midnight And Whose Streets Are Packed At Morn; And Here Come Tired Youths And Maids That Feign To Love Or Sin In Tones Like Rusty Razor Blades To Tunes Like Smitten Tin.

We Have Learned To Whittle The Eden Tree To The Shape Of A Surplice Peg, We Have Learned To Bottle Our Parents Twain In The Yelk Of An Addled Egg. We Know That The Tail Must Wag The Dog, For The Horse Is Drawn By The Cart, But The Devil Whoops, As He Whooped Of Old; It's Clever, But Is It Art?

God Gives All Men All Earth To Love, But Since Man's Heart Is Small, Ordains For Each One Spot Shall Prove Belov?d Over All.

There's No Jealousy In The Grave.

Men, Not Children Or Servants, Tempered And Taught To The End; Cleansed Of Servile Panic, Slow To Dread Or Despise, Humble Because Of Knowledge, Mighty By Sacrifice.