There's no cock crowing—no one fed
The flock this year. They've flown the coop,
Which I can't find. I'd stay in bed,
But my mind's a boiling soup—

Stone soup. Some soldier made that,
Right? Who stoops to conquer—See?
A stew! For God's sake find my hat!
I can't chew the stones the infantry

Grinds beneath its blistered feet,
A black wreath hung on every door,
Trumpets blaring out defeat
Of sleep. I'm staring at the floor—

Look up! Look up! See—there's the sun.
I'm cooking stones but there's the sun. 


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