I tread now once more into the woods haunt'd of yore,
so desolate, it seems you have all gone to war;
i feel these forests remain'd unchanged for me,
so i may return after each new victory.

Too many children have long degraded these spots,
darkness and evil too many boys here had sought,
but worst were the lone souls who brought sorrow with them
instead of being proud and leaving tears to the dames.

I vouch this desolation is suiting me well,
not to see childish rebels, nor christians, nor gays,
brotherhoods of resentful kids struck by the world,
fitter there to conform a foul communist mob.

All my words you'll dismiss, well, i know it for sure,
it seems that my mind dwells in a lone forest too;
but, proud of myself, i seek not being approv'd,
so i won't speak of pain, nor of hate, nor of blood.

(Although i champion a fine wrath 'gainst weak base souls,
your foster hate is like young abstinent sea-wolves';
'tis not always hatred just a marginal trend,
but still i prefer maturer scorn all the same.)