Every line is a dirge,
of ashes to dust,
a cavalcade at the point of a gun.
Every line is a perjury,
down the throat to your lust,
and everything else they'll starve you of.
And the one pa**es on to the many headed tyrant.
And the one becomes just one more head of the hydra.
In the dark or the sun,
the scaffold in front,
a cavalcade at the point of a gun,
You rot in the dirt,
returned to the earth,
from which you were an immaculate still birth.
With every man for his brother, comes hell and high water: a short drop, d**hlike sentence on acceptance.