Rolled Trousers, Sad Old Men

The mem'ries of Life Carnival

Hot roars, kid squeals, fried onions,

Flapping flags

Alas, you don't recall what I recall

J. Prufrock sees the sad abuse of art

To advertise so endless sales expand,

And martyr Mrs. P. does not expect

Her kids will ever, ever understand.

No one recalls what anyone recalls.

Then, is what matters "taste"? A preference?

What? What? That's your response? That's it? 

I wander, mumble, call a name,

Confused, exhausted, full of shame.

All hope - all "I" - disintegrates,

Something is turning toward a searing light,

a blue-white searchlight super nova bright.

In honor of

their half-hour love

the insects fly

and scorch and die

I shall plunge headlong into war;

A neutron bomb is just a lovely torch?