That half-pint, Napoleon, seen
Through the dead eye of a dead fish
Confirmed before sinking into growling
Decrepitude. Studied at the foot of the animal master,
The street was given him before was the ground.
His poor arrival was announced by the blasted soul of the true savage
At his feet reposed the accumulated spears
Of the Rose of Killarney and Rosa Parks.
The tranquilizing blows of time
And of prudent sight nearly meet us, dearly
And so the sons of princes, the sons of bitches and the sons of the citizen
All like: eventually their poor eyes
Will turn to stone.