This Wastrel Generation
This wastrel generation nothing leaves
That now has reached its autumn, its least treasure
Scattered, the season granting no reprieves
For hopes and wishes no immortal grieves
Harbored by them that fail, but takes full seizure.
This wastrel generation nothing leaves
To its posterity, that filled its sleeves
With bribes; but now such momentary pleasure
Scattered, the season granting no reprieves
In this hour of its death—nor none believes
Winter forestalled for some indulgent leisure.
This wastrel generation nothing leaves
Of bounty that it squandered, nor achieves
Brilliant remembrance, bones beneath skies azure
Scattered. The season granting no reprieves
Is now, comeuppance for a den of thieves,
While time survey and call by its just measure
This wastrel generation nothing—leaves
Scattered, the season granting no reprieves.