by the ones our own hands chose.
Power seized by their diabolism,
reveling in their zealots charlatanism.
The clouds, they believe, holds their lofty home,
untouched, far above the base, sewer smelly zone.
They distracted us with casus belli most certain,
Whilst they schemed and planned behind the curtain.
Mount Olympus they will seek,
Their hands clasped together, faces faux meek.
"To save our Mother!" they wail and shriek,
Whilst hiding laughter at the havoc they wreak.
Many will suffer for the plot,
Some will die and lay to rot.
Hearts will harden, minds will close.
Barren will be the farmer's furrows.
But there will be a sainted few,
promised to flower the land renewed.
Keeping the tally books well accrued,
covenanted to cast their enemies a-strewn.
When the last of neo gods has fallen,
their Olympus burned, sullied and sullen.
Led to the gallows of their own making,
voices moaning, knees all shaking.
"You jackals homegrown, our Olympus you've dethroned!"
"You consign our bones to brimstone with no headstone."
"Why?"
The sainted few replied.
We were no threat to you,
the little gods of the Olympus coup.
You cast the first stone,
cut our families to the bone.
Yet, on your mount unbeknown,
you forgot what you were shown,
the cry we most intoned,
that most of all, we wanted to be left alone.
No comments:
Post a Comment