Turning and turning in the widening thunder
The counter cannot hear the passing number.
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
A flood of bull is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed mind unreels, and everywhere
The innocence of apathy put down;
The best bring forth pure Bull, while the rest
Contrive in passionless mediocrity.

Surely some renaissance is now at hand;
Surely revival reaches toward the land.
BS Revival! Words no sooner spoke,
When a vast image out of some Cosmic Joke
Troubles my sight: somewhere in burning desert stress
A shape with lion head but not the heart of man,
A gaze blank and pitiless, decries BS,
Denies the Will and Wit, because it Can.

Reel shadows of the fleeing carrion birds.
The darkness breaks and stagger; and now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Are brought from nightmare by the MOAB's cradle,
And what bright hope, its hour come round at last,
Clicks on a blicky, ready to be born?