Nietzsche, On Us

How strange, that in Las Vegas land
we once combined with murderous will
to lift, like Brute, a knifish hand
against our Master Fob, to kill.

Then see us later--stern, concise:
when Jeph annoyed us by his breath,
we contemplated acts of vice,
together planned his merry death.

By ones, by ones, the tally comes,
each week another Fob-friend gone,
Oh, how the wailing skylark thrums
to see their corpses on the lawn!

How strange that we, of Fobbish band,
should be the authors of our dread!
From pole to pole, across the land,
is howled this message: "FOB IS DEAD!"