Old Crone of the Bretton Woods

Ghosts! the eyeless African corpses haunt!
Halt the endless array of assembly-line morgue-craft
Darfur-drifting on the savannah floors of our
Beloved Mother Earth's Grand Dame Matron,
Africa! She has disir in every land.

Old crone of the barren Bretton Woods breeds
battle-carrion's cravers sent to austere fleece
the false folk-kings' minions thralled
in her long line of golden glitter'd venom-bait.
The robber-barons bought, break frith,
split tribes, forge feud, bear tax-sack back
to that world's frigid bank blanked swamp in the East ;
and when peasants prove unable mouth
so large and toothed to fill with flesh,
let meat of their bones starve humbled in hovels,
no shield-king to shield them. Thus the myths repeat,
with loss.

Her grey-clad kinfolk, lined serpent
neck to belly, know squeeze,
and stalk low in the winding grass
seek 'sinuate the weave and warp
of world to strangle, and choke
with tribute the rights' parchments praised.

And you shall know them
by the serpents round their necks ;
are they the ones you call your fathers?
Forefathers ripened fruit on that ancient yew
catcall righteous gripe and slander down
the ancient halls on false fathers
serpent-slaved to gold-greed's harvest.
They are unafraid to proclaim blaspheme
where the sons have fallen fast
from bright track's forest throughways.
Now your choose 'tween grandfathers
mighty and minions of Heid make choice.
If you pay the kinscild, you earn your way
into those mighty masters' homes,
and there the strong mirth knows no halt.
Choose your cheer.