In diverting all our energies,
Each atom of our might and main,
To furiously fighting back against
Each slight and every hint of new injustice
With, every day, a fresh Thermopylae,
It’s possible we may have missed the Gods
Of Greed and Pillage pointing out a path
High on the ledge, picked out between the rocks
Between bleached thorn bushes and crisp goat turds,
So now their full-blown Nazi furies
Have got us all encircled
While we Spartans carry on
Screaming at each other
About how to comb our hair.