Two brothers, Gromoglasan & Tubalny,
Have told their mother not to weep no more,
The Fraturnamoré sons must go to war,
Or risk returning no more, or never to be.
Their father sounds a protozoic trumpet,
And hand and hand they walk towards the desert,
Beginning this quest reminds them of a seaside resort
That they would travel to with their family before they met.
"Are we protecting our country or our dignity?"
Gromoglasan asks his younger brother.
"Would you sacrifice yourself to save the other?
"Would you run if you could be certain of impunity?"
"If I'm not scared then I will be loud about it,"
Young Tubalny responds to Gromoglasan.
"But if I'm loud, that's not necessarily the reason:
"Any cause or emotion will be waved & shouted."
They are subsequently delayed by a huge stench,
And sunk up to their ear-holes in a shitty gutter,
They struggle, but no reasoning mortal can sort this clutter,
So for forty days, they party with lowlifes in a manmade trench.
They are helped out by one of the six French Allies,
Refusing to write another Catholic opera,
His name is Artie Wongay, formidable enemy of error,
He points them in the right direction, then follows creepily in disguise.
"The war must be on the other side of this forest,"
Gromoglasan proposes to his younger brother.
"I want to criticize the cause, but I don't want to be a bother.
"All I can think about is querulous purists, I've never met a terrorist."
"Let's lie here for awhile, beneath the shade of these elves,"
Says bold young Tubalny, already worse for wear.
"I'm hovering between ecstasy & despair,
"But I'm turned on by the possibility of strapping guns onto ourselves."
The brothers Fraturnamore reenact several rhetorical bombings & battles,
In the shadows, Artie Wongay shakes his head in critical astonishment,
He turns himself into a ravaging fire of atonement,
And pelts them with boulders & immolating projectiles.
A redwood falling, Gromoglasan leaps onto his brother to save him,
And, waving & shouting, Tubalny is squashed beneath two burning weights,
An ancient forest disappears amid national loves & hates,
And Artie Wongay, passionate but indifferent, retreats back to his haven.
Lament! Godlike Father Stentor Fraternamoré play your violy!
Your mother can weep no more above the televised roar!
A righteous cover-up & the hopelessness of the brothers Fraternamore!
Eleven angels escort you home, the war was lost without your bravery.
Have told their mother not to weep no more,
The Fraturnamoré sons must go to war,
Or risk returning no more, or never to be.
Their father sounds a protozoic trumpet,
And hand and hand they walk towards the desert,
Beginning this quest reminds them of a seaside resort
That they would travel to with their family before they met.
"Are we protecting our country or our dignity?"
Gromoglasan asks his younger brother.
"Would you sacrifice yourself to save the other?
"Would you run if you could be certain of impunity?"
"If I'm not scared then I will be loud about it,"
Young Tubalny responds to Gromoglasan.
"But if I'm loud, that's not necessarily the reason:
"Any cause or emotion will be waved & shouted."
They are subsequently delayed by a huge stench,
And sunk up to their ear-holes in a shitty gutter,
They struggle, but no reasoning mortal can sort this clutter,
So for forty days, they party with lowlifes in a manmade trench.
They are helped out by one of the six French Allies,
Refusing to write another Catholic opera,
His name is Artie Wongay, formidable enemy of error,
He points them in the right direction, then follows creepily in disguise.
"The war must be on the other side of this forest,"
Gromoglasan proposes to his younger brother.
"I want to criticize the cause, but I don't want to be a bother.
"All I can think about is querulous purists, I've never met a terrorist."
"Let's lie here for awhile, beneath the shade of these elves,"
Says bold young Tubalny, already worse for wear.
"I'm hovering between ecstasy & despair,
"But I'm turned on by the possibility of strapping guns onto ourselves."
The brothers Fraturnamore reenact several rhetorical bombings & battles,
In the shadows, Artie Wongay shakes his head in critical astonishment,
He turns himself into a ravaging fire of atonement,
And pelts them with boulders & immolating projectiles.
A redwood falling, Gromoglasan leaps onto his brother to save him,
And, waving & shouting, Tubalny is squashed beneath two burning weights,
An ancient forest disappears amid national loves & hates,
And Artie Wongay, passionate but indifferent, retreats back to his haven.
Lament! Godlike Father Stentor Fraternamoré play your violy!
Your mother can weep no more above the televised roar!
A righteous cover-up & the hopelessness of the brothers Fraternamore!
Eleven angels escort you home, the war was lost without your bravery.
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