Let the tale begin
Though our hearts run, skip and race.

Squandering the living earth
With no conscience laying it to waste
Selling our lives for a printed green face
Ill- gotten by the stroke of a pen

We are all dead men
Counting our black  sins
Willing souls infected
Putrid
Evil smell carried high on the wind

Now the tale comes to an end
We are all dead men
Flowing thick blood, muscle and bone
Into the underworld we march
Judged and condemned
Hell now our comfort and home
We are all dead men


This poem is copyrighted and stored in author base. All material subject to Copyright Infringement laws
Section 512(c)(3) of the U.S. Copyright
Act, 17 U.S.C. S512(c)(3), Tammy M. Darby Oct. 13, 2014