Shout, hangman, shout—

‘til the rebels find their out.

‘cause they need to know where the shells will land;

‘lest the stars take the beating in stars’ place.

They’d follow the wounded, still hand in hand,

Making tears from stardust that falls, face to face.

But take care; they speak in skyscreech,

not in riddles, but in lies.

Pray the fair; bear the Mind’s breach—

whence the fleeting beetle flies.