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Who were they, these two, 
whose bloody failure I’ve become? 
Who made them build castles in the sand 
and joyously march till the end of time? 
Of Aaron's branch she 
followed her master lighting His pipe 
and chanting hymns to a foreign see; 
From Levi's tribe he
built His temples on profane grounds 
making others kneel down and sing.
 
I came from their sweat, 
smeared in her blood. 
They got up and showered, 
put holy garments on their backs 
leaving me alone bathed in red, 
drops of their tepid sex still on my face. 
 
From victory to victory off did they go
veiling half the globe with hallowed cant,
the other half shaming to the core. 
Theirs was a good life: 
Not one little screw went amiss, 
the puzzle pieces went all in place. 
 
They didn't miss me, 
but I missed them;
Both changed their names.
(They'd gladly change their faces
if their investments 
weren't tied up somewhere else.) 
 
Steelworks and yet more steelworks, 
according to His schemes,
whose pipe they kept alive
for all time to come, and even farther still. 
 
This demi-god of demi-monde whose 
bloody ironies, in halls of brotherhood, 
were always met with prolonged applause;
a pipe in His mouth, a smile on His lips. 
 
His death did shake them up a bit, 
but not all too dramatically. 
They took their vivid garments off, 
they swept the castles off the ground, 
and went back to work. 
 
(Me? I was lost somewhere on the way 
from 6 years plan to another 5. 
They sought me not, 
I let the matter drop.) 
 
Now dead and buried they dance with Him 
in heaven they wished to set up here. 
They dance and laugh and light His pipe,
and all is still as it's always been.