Three vile harpies make their nest,
In the alcazar of the Archbishop-ex.

Their woeful lamentations wail,
Through bones of trees bleached white and pale,
Stained with ink and graven things,
Off stone and steel and glass they ring.

They squawk disdain for all of those
Who their will and might oppose,
Or those who choose to not comply,
With their demands to harmonize.

Aged Aello with her fading mind,
And cruel Celaeno by rage defined.
Young Ocypete joins in the game,
To good report and mark defame.

Medusa holds watch from nearby shore,
Holding threats and force in store,
Shuts her ears with blinded eyes,
For all who disagree that she is wise.

‘Pon Olympus they rule and decree,
From Julia’s home for all to see,
Edicts, laws, and memoranda
That contradict in manners random.

They are not keepers of the flame,
They are not worthies of the name,
They are not leaders of the pack,
They are but dusters of the rack.

The sun will rise, the sun will set,
And wisdom will always be man’s gift.
But from them comes not a gleam,
Their knowledge closed, their minds unseen.

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