VILIFY VILLANELLE

We make an art of common things,
little changed from Yeats' deep darkly inside,
so can there be a common song we sing?

Concoct the coat which provides wicked spin,
hold me to the truth and keep feet in the fire;
we make an art of common things.

The alt of your enemy asks for embracing 
greater minds than ours have given logic,
so can there be a common song we sing?

A bullet-proof union still registering
from Spanish Town to Oldham to wilder High Wycombe.
We make an art of common things.

Mrs. Groce and Mr. Blakelock both in our grieving,
an eye for a high and we all go blind,
so can there be a common song we sing?

Three-fingered salutes in congregating
the collected grievances with mercy as might.
We make an art, an uncommonly rare thing,
so will the song of the commoners be arresting?