Long before the old clock struck thirty-nine
          I gazed through taped windows at boiling clouds
          That swam in a sea of tempestuous skies
          Like some filigree spider’s web spun in black
          To imprison a forlorn and anxious fly.

          Taking my last sip of fine red wine
          I’d sobering thoughts as I looked to the streets
          Where the pale children danced in phantom rain
          And the white mists ghosted about their feet
          As Sturzkampfflugzeug banshees screamed, again.

          As the thirty-nine horror slid slowly away
          The hands of the old clock approached forty-four
          Yet I lurked in the cellar for Ursa drew near
          A liberating predator dressed up in red
          Another boot ready to kick down my door.