By the gates await the martyr’s brood
listless faces gone crisp in heat,
manacled hands and withered feet.
They’ve come to seek a fairer mood.
And without scorn they range their crude
depictions of the royal suite
on each and every bloodied street.
They do their shopping in the nude.
Yet all in all, the more refined
among them seethe with principles,
seethe with virtue, seethe with love.
The sound of their collective mind
augments its righteous decibel,
and surges like a flaming dove.