Bring us catharses,

Gentle kicks up the arses,

Keep and protect us,

From the Morning Star:

The dead-end bar,

At the end of the road,

Where drinkers eat woad,

And whisper battle cries,

Against imaginary foes,

Got to be on your toes,

When the politics fly,

Can’t ever ask why,

Lest they depart from their woes.

Oh, may the windmills sing,

Of the good ol’ things,

And keep everything gilded in rose.

Click here to read a poem about echo chambers.

Or here for some of T.S. Eliot’s poetry.