The muse is quiet
The winds move the leaves
A world set aright
In the haunting, black relief

Friends, cohorts, countrymen
A fiendish lot of fools 
Arguments wandering
Bequests of long lain souls

Moss grows on the stones
But only on the north-facing sides
The debaters finding solace
In the wracking surrendered noise

Truth is a homicidal maniac
Discretion, society's lifeblood
She held her silence close
As her long-fated rest fell