cold bayonets lining george street
spelling out a constitution in severed heads
a long parade where nothing is invisible
and a dropped fingernail started it all
a need to expand, to plant feet on a new neck
and low it went, to the core of earth
and dragged out a fistful of lava
and the rape was just an afterthought
borne from boredom and entitlement

and the truth is now in his sway
standing under an ugly dome of ceramic
his feet covered, touching infected tiles
he forgets the dirt he was made in
the Law, the dust, the dingo that howled him
from a Womb to a womb

the city is no home
rats aren't totems
and goon is no spirit