There is a quiet place out of reach
Of those who hatred preach.
And understand to late
Or perhaps not at all
That pride comes before a fall.
Words meaningful as a harlot’s compliment fall
On the ear
Of men who hear, What they want to hear.
The truth clear
Is, I fear
To often lost, in sound and beer.
The fanatic’s words drear
Will Fill the empty soul
Of those who’s goal
Is the destruction of the whole
To which They object
Without knowing why,
Then, pointlessly die.