The Horsemen, holding broken reins
The Morning of the Hurricanes,
Sigh 'it's no use, it's all in vain,
The King will soon surrender'
The Bishops weep, the Rook's long gone,
And Pieces, pacing, pale and wan,
Watch Queen be ravaged Pawn by Pawn,
Her Knight dares not defend her
They wonder why they ever came,
They have No One that they can blame,
They have no face, they have no name,
They're black and white, transgender
The feeble minded Cleric clowns,
Mouths hollow hurdy-gurdy sounds,
While Fantom of the Opera frowns,
And follows dazed dissenters
The empty handed Vagabond
Smokes stale cigars, strokes faded Blondes
While wailing at the walls beyond,
And kneels before he enters
He's gaping through stained window panes,
While waiting for the Hurricanes,
He's spinning round and round in chains,
Attached to life's tormentors
The Savants serve the underfed
While Jackals jape at saws once said,
And Crows, collecting scattered bread,
Adorn, with crumbs, the platter
The Pirate whets his wooden leg,
With pupils dull and visage vague,
And if instead he's served the plague,
It really doesn't matter
His Princess, pale, no longer reigns,
She's hiding from, the Dwarf explains,
The coming of the Hurricanes
The Stones stare, pointing at her
The rustic clocks with spindled spokes
Remind the Mimes to tell the Folks
The time of day and other jokes,
But No One looks to listen
The Jokers wild and One Eyed Janes,
Weep, winding up the rundown trains
Mid whispers of the Hurricanes,
And Priests no longer christen
They're running round in marathons,
With cuckoo birds and dying swans.
While pitching pennies into ponds
Their eyes opaquely glisten
The Beggars, neath the balustrades,
With bitter Children, Chambermaids,
Are darning socks with broken spades
As screams in dreams redouble
They're spinning wool with endless threads,
Crocheting hats to hide their heads
They have no coats, they have no beds,
Their faces, full of rubble
But many things will not remain
The Morning of the Hurricanes,
When goblets filled with cool champagnes
Implode on purple bubbles
The White-Robed Maiden empties trash,
And fumbles with an untied sash,
- Her virgin urn's awash with ash -
She's pacing in the Palace
Her hopes converge in coffee spoons,
Her memories adrift in dunes,
Yet still she smiles with teeth like prunes,
And lips of painted callous
And long before the midnight drains
- The Saviour wakes, the Loser gains -
The waters of the Hurricanes
Will fill her empty chalice
The storm behind the clarinets,
The silver flutes, the castanets,
The foghorns belching in quartets,
The bagpipes, puffed and swollen,
Is keeping time to tambourines
While Tom Thumb and his Four-Inch Queens,
They curse themselves and philistines,
For time they've lost or stolen
They stumble through the old domains,
They cannot stop the Hurricanes -
The fountain weeps, the mountain wanes,
And sands just keep on rollin'
The Hunchbacks juggle twisted canes
And blanch before the Hurricanes
In melted sleet, in frozen rains,
In bruised and battered sandals
They'll groan within the land of gulls,
The land of stones, the land of nulls,
They'll crawl between the blackened lulls,
For Night Time brooks no candles
They'll pray to Dogs, while Nuns and Dukes,
Reflect on long forgotten Spooks -
It's really more than random flukes
That doors are lacking handles
The Crowds are throbbing in the jails,
Stooped, peering through a fence of nails -
The light within their eyeballs pales
With plastic flame that sputters
They're sleeping there because they must,
Their eyelids hang like peeling rust,
Their tears, palled pellets in the dust,
Behind the bolted shutters
They'll reawake without their pains
The Morning of the Hurricanes,
Without their sores, without their stains,
Their agonies will fill the drains
And overflow the gutters