The genius has died, for no one believes --
Belief is the soul of the real.
Our culture is lost, but nobody grieves --
They don't know what loss can reveal.
The poet sings mute to Muses now dead --
He can't count on any support --
His values lay prone, each shot in the head
Before they could make their report.
The culture is bleeding down on the field
But nobody cares to confess
That anyone, anything could ever yield
A wound they would stoop down to dress.
The genius has died, for no one will help
Defend him or help him to stand.
And so we will lose the barbaric yelp
Unless we give genius a hand.