Italy, 1945

Forgive them, God, they know not what they do,
though, neither, then, do you, and I am not
a better man to save them by a coup.
Start capital, and end it with a dot.
Just tell me once, exactly what’s the plan?
I have a pen and paper here, for scratch.
Write me a number: what’s the price of man?
Two candidates, one outcome–that’s the catch!
I might have read a chapter from your book.
(Skip to the end, the part I most deplore.)
It’s bloody, small, and petty–with a hook:
at every chance, call Babylon a whore.
My pettiness is, now you have your way.
What worries you? Why so little to say?