You've tidied up the wounds, cut down the pain To prove we dug not, nor were mown, in vain. A century's a handy clot of years For soil and saccharine to soak up tears: A decent shroud for grief, to bury it In settled sediment of native grit. Long thrilled and spilled, our opiated blood Blooms black-red glory now our brains are mud: Two hundred minutes, generously lent To sell our ghosts, that