Get rid of them.

The king falls in the water again and again.

Howsoever many ways it can be said;

it must always be said within:

men are without exception;

without order.

This quivering din of spear-song

will not sate these.

These crave the red iron air—

these who need this day named,

that they may matter

to their sons.

One foot in front of the other—

they march to wet oblivion,

pulled down into mud by metal skin.

Not one strangled gasp

will escape this muck.

Voices soiled,

held silent.

The dent

the glance

the plunge

the strike

the fall

Well.

These men are all ruined.

Get rid of them.