Splayed in doffed raiment of flaxen hemp and fustian might,
The vatic pride of prescient wisdom of the pending fall,
It is all too much for me tonight.
The world is too flat and hot and crowded they’ll say,
No reason to sire those who cannot play,
Or lift a spoon without the guilt of this;
Their footprints mashed and without bliss.
We are the new Qing Dynasty, with bounded carbon-feet,
Hobbled still with awkward hope and trenchant grief.
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