Meme, the Same

By walls of rock-like Babylon
That chariots can run upon,
Above Red Lodge, between Cuba
And Sun Valley, I found my son,

Odd little scrap of fictive text,
One borrowed word waiting the next
And hanging in the unrhymed wind,
Lisping, "Papa Culture, I'm vexed.

I thought I lived inside a world,
A thing for whom all flags kept furled,
But there's nothing in it for us
Is there, no place for our words whirled?"