I feed her the verbs and she spits them into neat rows
Like flowers lining up for the chambers
Lilacs or roses
them glances under the skirt all the same
Blank men carrying guns, brains trapped in steel
the chant, a brutish sentence repeating over and under
The tunnel of the eye line
A place here, and a torture there
Nothing to concern your pretty brains
loosened from the skull with a dagger
You breathe out, your final counting from pain to fear to dark
And he tortures out the truth, meticulous blunders
Your last word calculated precisely tips him over
That need for greatness greater than the spoils of victory