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The War on Terra
The dogs of war are loosed upon the fertile crescent’s cache
As Afghan’s Pax Romana blooms the poppy’s avalanche
Our kings’ incensed insanity bemoans we stupid lot
While senators, as suited wolves, purvey the mongers’ hock
Ill-gotten rest the gains of war, the stocks rise as the sun
Burns true alike the fierce and fair beneath the snipers’ fun
As entrails of the spray of bone across the stinking sands
Well compliment necessities - the boardrooms’ flourished hands
This marish night of open sores we once believed was sight
Recount our fabled stories wrought before our senseless plight
We stagger, struck, these killing fields - our pens are closing fast
What recompense come we to bear upon our broken backs?
What means have we to justify our fattened cowed bequeath?
When all that’s left to sacrifice is worship of the death?
The body is a season,
the mind, a timepiece
and the spirit, a cloud passing.