Still they come, the lemon-scented
philistines, their faces glum,
their arms upraised, their temples dented,
still they come.
Theirs, the only hymn to hum,
the only virtues unrepented.
Theirs, the trumpet, theirs, the drum,
the heralds of the self-contented.
Theirs, the mindless tedium
of brilliance quashed before it’s vented.
Still they come.