One quarter million of souls have conscripted since spring. 

An army of the beloved joins the march of the dead. 

The still-living bereaved wail in protest of this draft.

And are met with denial, derision, and doubt.

———

Tell those losers they’re lying and lazy and shrill!

We must keep the crowds coming, hear them cheer, feel the roar!

Keep the thing makers making! Let the revelers reel!

———

So the risens ranks swell, each soul-dier armed with the truth. 

And their loved ones are left to raise hell here on earth.