If there was any greater blasphemy of Blair's misrule, it was his nauseous presence at the annual ceremony at the Cenotaph. His patently contrived facial set, as false and dishonest as all else about him, used to rouse a wholly inappropriate ire in me at a moment of national remembrance. His betrayal of our nation and of our army have earned him ignominy and disgrace even in death; if his perfumed corpse is dug from the grave and flung into the common sewer-pit it will be no less than he deserves. Like one of Graves' despoilers
The white hem of a winding sheet
Draws slowly upward from her feet;
Soon it will mount knee-high, then to the thigh.
It crackles like the parchment of the treaties,
Bonds, contracts and conveyances,
With which, beggared and faint and like to die,
You signed away your island sovereignty
To rogues who learned their primer at your knees
Instead, today we will have Brown, as dead as any Zombie, pale and phosphorescent with the corpse-pallor, stiff and mechanical as he clutches a wreath that surely stains his wrist scarlet to the cuff, a stain beyond all great Neptune's ocean's ability to wash.