The Locust Years

We are the widows of the winter To whom no spring shall ever dawn We are a window to the future The morrow's first polluted yawn We are a dowry to destruction In all the shouting we shall drown We are the shadows of the good times We are the echo, no

Please hold your applause, though you may pause for genuflection As so deftly we're directing your attention To this hand my left or is it right, no need to analyze the sentiment and scope of our correctness Please remain seated as the spectacle repe