WATCHMEN
Six of us were your guards, slayers of fear,
Humor, the parti-colored, juggling knives,
Rhyme with a sonnet train of elfin wives,
Friendship, as solid-indolent as beer;
Love with his harp you thought a trifle queer,
But most amusing—if he walked in gyves.
Trust and myself made pillows of our lives.
And so you bore with us for quite a year.
You wearied. Humor twinkled to a star.
Rhyme turned a broker and began to add.
I’m sure that Friendship went entirely mad;
And Love crept stalely drunk from bar to bar.
Only remained the bald old dog, blind Trust
And I—and we shall growl till both are dust.