To Vercingetorix In Heaven

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To Vercingetorix In Heaven
Back before French was a wine arrogance
you screeched a bloody note which stung
the bronze bound fist sweeping Europe.
Surely your flaming whicker beasts scream still
from the talons of an eagle
flying deep in the hills of our memories.
Blood father,
we've killed the American Indian
and loftless History's iron fist
keeps clutching the songs that weak birds sing.