There she rest upon the globe,
That height, yet much sorrows,
Her likes, they lay asleep,
Individually wrapped in neat little rows,
That awful blurb of pain,
Increases daily as we see the remains,
She pierces every heart,
Her power to consume, so unpredictable,
A mark of doom,
She spreads wherever she roams,
Affecting as much as they do stones,
An abomination for such a small home.

Our reformation , they claimed to soil,
The perfect distraction,
To divert all attention,
From the embezzling intentions,
Of those masked in white,
And their deceiving partners,
Those mistakenly clothed in black,
Yes, those that we believe to be true
It's unbelievable, but halfheartedly true.

Do they wish well for our being?
When they get richer, and we slump poorer,
Do they live in fear?
Or are they just the followers,
Where's the hope?
When our very blood turned white,
When their mess still petrified us,
Who's the real enemy?
Oh , Is she the real enemy?