The little cherubs are charming
With reddened lips and white faces,
Pretending to grown-up darkness
In their batwing-black leather wings.
What have poor bats to do with them,
These primitives of lymphocytes
In the blood stream of culture, these
Baby angels? Their innocence
Is their greed. Bats' innocence is
Irrelevant as bats' greed. Here
The flocks of the cancerous young,
Singing their divine hosannas,
Rise up into the baleful sky,
The bird's egg blue of their blandly
Faberge god. "We will replace
Anyone who questions our faith."
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