There are volumes writ of fiction
All are cast in perfect diction
Every word engenders friction
'Twixt the masses, yielding war

They will ply each vice as virtue
You will heed them, they will hurt you
It may seem that they deserve to
But your feet are off the floor

Through the massacres that follow
Every raven, every swallow
Will escape the holy hollow
for the sunlight past the door

And in cautionary voices
They will sing of stilted choices
Of the trials and rejoices
And the thrones the fall before

But no one's left to hear them anymore