Or call for show of hands for easy breaths?
This way, the kings have fed on us so long.
Our grains of blood were woven into wreaths;
Our silent pain became disdainful song.

Like bed bugs, they have dried and ****** our blood;
A greedy vermin makes no truce with food.
And, pushed in ground—for we are only mud—
So, call for pyres to burn, and fetch the wood.

So, melt the lock, for key is broken, stuck.
The spear must drain the boar, for winter comes.
So, march in lockstep, as we need to pluck
The monster heads for whom this song we hum.

So, call for show of hands for strangled breath.
The call for show of hands for estate death.