So shone in sunlight the fine pointed spear
That the republican poised in his right hand
With deadly aim at brilliant Dworkin
At his skin where most it lay exposed.
For nearly all was covered
By the bronze gear Dworkin had taken
From slain Sandel.
It showed only the bare throat
Where the collarbones divided neck and shoulders,
Where the death of the soul is quickest.
So here was where, as the liberal charged,
The republican drove his point home.
The end came quick, and death closed upon the lawyer,
Spirit from his body fluttered to undergloom,
Bewailing fate that made him leave his youth
And neutrality behind. And as the man died
The republican spoke. He said:
“Die, make an end.
You who has made a world
Where there is nothing worth dying for
And nothing good on TV.”
(Oxford 1992. With apologies to Fitzgerald and Lattimore’s Homers.)