The herald of the Stupid God remains
Who by strange trumpets sounds the stranger strains
That echo well in empty hearts and brains
And fills them, over-combed and by paint sprayed,
With vigor that leaves lookers-on dismayed
At how they have been and still are betrayed.
Yet them the Stupid God has sickened, too,
Because all that they–and I–can think to do
Yet is bemoan their state, not carry through
Some act or deed that might something avail.
There is no act that seems it would prevail,
Save those which prices far too high entail
Than they would pay, could they them well afford–
They would cost much for far too small a hoard.

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