Pathetic Prophetic

It’s a ystem of fetid lies.
A bloated corpse of force-fedflies.
The establishment of the times,
turns it’s back on the hands it binds.
Gagged and flagged, then tied and dragged, through the bureaucratic rinds.

The leader sits in the back.
Let’s his dogs field the attacks.
Leadership is a listless rig.
A spoiled parlay of robotic jigs.

No, the captain’s not coming back.
So via heart attack or baseball bat; the back-of-the-line voice will be tied to the tracks.

For hell loves to grease its wheels.
And the devil loves his heels.

When fires rise and the moon wrecks tides; society will cry.
All the cowards, cheats, and all too quick-to-please will be hung at noon on high.

When the 99 return. 
Order to a freeer world. 

Those that stood and pointed cloaked in brass-colored hoods will see their children’s hearts in urns.

Rest assured that time will come.
When institution is undone.
History always repeats:



“What does it mean for you to sit quiet as the future is strangled?!”


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