Aftermath What s this thing I m supposed to be I did name it once And I called it me But the name worked not And it held no sway Over literate slaves On the crucial day For the epithets That were aimless flung On that fateful day When the thrall was hung Repetition killed In prosaic art In narcotic fade Of the tired heart No apologies For imploded souls For regrets are cheap And won t plug the holes So I ll find a name For this new-found thing And the next time round I ll have learned to sing