Babylon

The city grew. Not on its own,
Nor by (what rot) directed thought
But by a sense it should have grown
And mild surprise that it had not,
Converted into even milder
Satisfaction that it had.
The city grown was somewhat wilder,
Though all in all hardly that bad,
And  everybody (nearly so)
Was certain it would soon be fixed
(By whom? Who knew). And so things go
By time and random movement mixed.
The city burned, of course, but then
What else befalls the works of men?