conquest

so what disrupts requires that we select

with all due art the silver from the dross

taking no notice of what's on the boss

nor even caring truth must have effect

while each must go as their own hearts direct

with grant of knowledge given in the gloss

by those who count the plus side as a loss

for what we had is gone naught will connect

into the afternoon the buzzards plunge

upon the corpse of wisdom is their feast

where all is ended save the scent of dung

here is a sight that nothing could expunge

when hope and virtue have together ceased

and only curses rise from every tongue