Kipling hands this draft in:

"In time, the whole place wangled another fame,
and torture flourished loud too in freedom's land.

This parable I cannot understand
inscribes unfurls across the sky in figured flame
and though we crawl swarm beneath as then and barely name
our fear anymore, our dragon terror is at hand.

How long since we put let baboons mandrills in take command,
and how much longer must they swagger still? No tongue may frame
the public question. Blindfold justice, she
who firing squads can face, with aim as poor,
        Weil saw more, and she
spoke of the Great Beast... Misfortunes pour
now; what else can poor Pandora free

but that which always hoicks gathers swept them to our shore,
a recklessness that sometimes works? Like me
you dare left turns --but I do not adore.
        For me
freedom is a window, not a door.
        To me
but chaoslight on Shrub’s Plutonian shore?
Small future stays in sight for mine and me,
And as for what I’ve made --drunk toreador--"

What would Lazarus think?