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.