The enemy we get up in the morning to engage again,

Again, is the not knowing his language, or what color

He has for face or hat. But this foe is uncertain

Of his queer willfulness, not sure he scares us really.

Speak to him. Speak up. Enemy, what triumph is it

To wake us anxious into this local light of the sun,

This harmless western side of the geology textbook?

We are older. Any evil to be done, we have done.

You fumble at pocket-picking, or you swing and miss.

You yell Boo between the lines of news, in the middle

Of anyone's conversation, or the middle of the night.

You are slippery, persistent, and our bones are brittle.

But he can't win. Tomorrow he'll give up an go away.

There is more poison in us than he knows. A stupid war,

Dragged out long after both sides are bored with it.

How it began, enemy forgets, and what the fight is for.

He makes it hard for us to forget, stubborn, sneaky,

Fearful as he is. Hard; but before he was we were.

Are we not ancient in cunning, long skilled in harm,

On one another to perfection practised? We are. We.