This is the Tom Hartman program.

Turning and turning and the widening gear,

the Falconer.

Things fall apart, the center cannot hold.

Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world.

The blood-dim tide is loosed and everywhere the ceremony of innocence has drowned.

The best lack all conviction while the worst are full of passionate intensity.

Surely some revelation is at hand.

Surely the second coming is at hand.

The second coming, hardly are these words out, when a vast image of Spiritus Mundi troubles

my sight.

Somewhere in the sands of the desert, a shape with lion body in the head of a man, a gaze blank and pitiless as the

sun, is moving its slow thighs, while all about it, real shadows of the indignant desert birds.

The darkness drops again, but now I know.

The 20 centuries of stony sleep were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle.

And what rough beast, its hour come round at last, slouches towards Bethlehem to be born.

That is the second coming by William Butler Yates.

This is the top Hartman show.

I am Jeff Smith, you're you. I cook for a federal judge who had been a journalist.

He had said that, well, you want to reserve the second coming type.

And by the second coming type he meant,

imagine a newspaper that was deciding its type set, deciding its type set,

...