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Beau
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In the Court of Conscience
With the cold eye of the soldier and
The cold hand of the surgeon and
The cold and calculating mind of
Someone from Intelligence,
I walk along the city street
Assassinating all I meet;
My crumpled uniform, once neat,
Is now in disarray.
Breezes blow my hair at will,
Their wayward passage to fulfil
But they can never pierce the heart
And kill the way a deftly wielded
Knife, or yet a sharpened barb,
Well turned and twisted can succeed;
For words will never make you bleed
But only fade away.
I found this weakness in the heart;
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Remorselessly tore it apart,
But that was when my uniform
Was smart and pretty in the glittering springlight;
When my words so clear
Fell, curdling the bitter beer,
And dripped into the waiting ear
'Til silence ruled that day.
And when the slaughter was complete,
Another fool had found defeat
And still my hands were soft and
Even sweet inside the glove that played
The drumsticks on the soft and kind.
It took the military mind
To sentence silence as the blind
Went tapping on their way
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