I looked at tomorrow and saw A broken jaw. That shot Spoke to you in your own tongue, Robespierre: Moloch, whose mind Was pure humanity. How many In our own dear day batten On handmade fists of mob? But they are clowns; but your Lilied earth had giants in it, Real swordsmen of the tongue, Knights by birth or accident, Who when their steel broke lost, Who when they lost must die, Whom no gray republic bred. Robespierre, star of blood! Hoisted chinless to the axe, Frozen fool on the front page, Mute you still amaze us all. France, baked in her own fat, Flamed up then flaked to rust. Black paper and a little bone, She is now completely dry, And barely glows at highest heat With clunks of treetrunk tongue, A burnt-out aircraft carrier Crewed by castrated ghosts. Her today is mindless patience; Her tomorrow is the trench. Her founding father’s you. And America? And America! And true to form, we wrote You off. “Basically good boys,” Said then as still we say, “But a little over-excited.” Our first crime, for which Unimaginable punishments Wait patiently in the sewers.