Merchants of Evil


These wars are fought by men who, out of range,
Play fast and loose with other people’s lives.
Through history the tyrants never change.
The one with deepest pockets always thrives.

Blood on manicured hands will never stain
Or give pause to pretenders in the world
Who sit on high, above the awful pain
Of death. Their chests pounded, their flags unfurled,

They preen their feathers as a rutting duck
Might see submissive fodder for its need
To prove it’s superiority. Fuck
Convention, fuck right and wrong. Psychic greed,

Mastery, domination, victory!
Historic monster is their legacy.


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