#891 On The Bile of Unbelievable Grief

In our cups, the consolation of the inconsolable
The unbelievable nature of upbraidings:
The game of conveying blame is rarely benign 

And so in our cups, 
We raise a toast for the ghost of leadership past 
Intoning names of former chiefs and comrades
For we are like armour cleansed of ardour 
Marked with the grime of disappointments 

We tip our cups in common disbelief 
A prayer against the bile of fetid grief.