O the Roman ambassadornWas torn apart-apart by plasternAnd reassembled after:nthe 40 years of bombing:nThey were wild and they were crying, in the picturenWhere the smoke clearednTear your body from your beardnAnd watch as the planes burn the boats from the islennA board is a boardnWhen the pulpit meets the swordnAnd the poet has been borednHe's seen Fire and he's seen PainnAnd the tedium has stained,nO Vergil, get your rake out there's a pastor to be pullednAnd 60 miles west of Rome: I stopped some dreadful hoard.nnAnd I, I will let my body go,nAnd when it goes and then it stinksnThere will be beauty in its stinknAnd the last rays of the finknWill suppose themselves to shinenUpon the corpse of Stinking GoldnThat has fallen into brine,nIdle song.