Contra Septenaria

Caesar’s singing soldiers marched,
Chanting trochees at the front—

All their blood and gore—the Celts
Killed, the women raped, the burnt

Crops, the Rubicon—their own
Civil wars, their plagues, the last

Days of Rome’s Republic—Great
Caesar’s ghost is boasting still—

Veni, vidi, vici—mind
Marching down roads strewn with bones,

Well-formed phrases stomping thoughts
In the skulls that have survived

Warfare long enough to die
Hailing Caesar, hypnotized.