THE WIDENING FIAT GYRE
TURNING and turning like a runaway tyre
The HP falcon cannot hear the HP falconer;
Things fall apart; the Central Banker cannot hold;
Market anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed fiat tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.
Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Third Easing is at hand.
The Third Easing! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image straight out of the Simpson's
Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert
A shape with lion body and the head of a PhD canard,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Reel shadows of indignant pundit birds.
The darkness drops again; but now I know
That twelve months of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a gold plated tungsten dreidel,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Maiden Lane to be reborn?