Venona

Men are waiting patiently;

Remove me from the scene,

A sea of faceless souls in suits.

A sight for eyes, like thumbs;

Sore, crooked, and bow and foul relief.

You! Have!

You have been exposed.

Your eyes speak well of you.

They play my requiem

to a closed-casket burial.

Your conspiracy;

Conspiring to deliver me to the authorities.

I have been betrayed so graciously.

My bloodhounds are hooked on a trail of ink

Which led me to the words you scribbled down;

{An} obituary dedicated to me.

{I} might as well be blind with isolated eyes like mine.

Your fingers are star-crossed lovers that can't seem to get enough of each other.

This pantomime dialect doesn't practice what you preach,

doesn't practice what you preach.