There are so many untold things I'd
like to complain about, and they give
me this : a see-saw stricture from a
copy of Hell. The outlines of the fire
spell Death, but the words seem to
wiggle and move. Here I stand, above
the Hudson, looking down. They still
call this West Point, though most of that
old meaning is gone. Directions did
once meant something. No more.
We've shattered every reliquary there
ever was - the croundsman's glasses
are all gone, the broken pitchers of ale,
seven chains across the river, even
McGowan's Pass is forgotten. Now,
this field is soccer and football
and bubbles and froth, and I don't
know where they put the dead.
Once having made Pin the Tail on
the Donkey a war game, what
else is there left to do?