Most of the people we had in mind are dead.
We killed them stupidly before we could
recruit their faces to make stupid killing good.
The nose that spites the face? We took the head
entirely. The turning worm? Well fed.
We motored Dunsinane to Birnam Wood
ourselves, then raved that fortune never should
obtain for us or from us, and failing, fled
the mortgaged castle for the witches bubbling pot,
forsook failsafety for a forlorn fecal dream,
a rising tide of shit that sinks the boats
we built to fight some wars already fought,
already won or lost, but past—now scream
for death while the drunken army chief emotes.