The barbarians are not at the gates.
They’re through the gates.
They built the gates,
Granting ingress through the walls they built
From what they pillaged from your homes
To hang from them the gates they fashioned
From your children’s bones.
The barbarians aren’t at the gates.
They threw up gates
To other gates
To herd us to the temples spired with gold,
Wherein we’re sacrificed and might appease
The gods they fear and thus ward off
Barbarian disease.
The barbarians are not at the gates.
Their loping gait’s
A measured gait;
Barbarian ways have been refined;
Silk shirts replacing uncured yak pelt hats.
Yet farts still follow through, with orange shit
Speckling their spats.
The barbarians aren’t at the gates.
They’re far too great,
And it’s too late
To get all pious about integrity and truth
Or simple kindness, with a rueful pang.
We’ve known them far too long so know that that’s not
How barbarians hang.