A Fateful Wound

A fateful wound hath made of me a hulk of sadness
Stretched in fitful weakness, robbed of active vigour
Since the martial genius of those worthy soldiers to earth is stricken
And their valour’s record silenced

To take their place will come the fat-rumped jeerers
After crushing them, their culture and their cities
Laden all with packs of plate and brass and pewter
With shaven jaws and braggart and English accent

Every dowdy then will wear a coat of beaver
And don a gown of silk from crown of head to ankle
All our castles will be filled with clownish upstarts
Crowded full of veterans of cheese and pottage