Hand over the keys to the machine
To men vain, pious, and lusting
See what they won’t demonize
Love and grave and you and I
Pave in sorrow their easy ride
Smooth up to the door knocker of hell
Thought a garden, and just as well.
Go on, then, courting
Up to that reddening brink.
Run after your smiling groom.
Not but injustice–grace–
Could turn aside what just reward
Waits in the bed they’ve made.
Might titans hear a quiet word?
I guess, but
I often root against it