While you battened down the hatches
you lost your cloak and dagger.
Half your acts are Hell-sending.
You bed down with cadavers.
Burn out the clutch.
Stay off the sauce.
Pump and sweat
to your heart's content
but
Machiavelli and his Prince
were wrong on ends and means.
They only whip a horse that pulls.
Dont be gun-shy wearing war paint.
And there, seething in the myst
is the earned truism
that the sun doesn't only
set in the west.
It sets on you and me.
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