Burning and burning in the widening pyre The puppet cannot see the puppeteer; Things fall apart; the market cannot hold; Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world, The fleet-footed tide is loosed, and everywhere The cacaphony of immigrants is found; The best lack all conviction, while the worst Are full of passionate intensity. Surely some revolution is at hand; Surely the Second Coming is at hand. The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out When a vast image out of Corpus Christi Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert A shape with lined body and the face of a rat, A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun, Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it Reel shadows of the indignant wedded queers. The darkness drops again; but now I know That twenty centuries of stony sleep Were vexed to nightmare by a fiat dollar, And what Ron Paul, his hour come round at last, Slouches towards Washington to be born? credit: somethingawful.com user "Protocol 5"