The Rulers wield their silver shields,
wear golden coronets
while warders guard the prison yard,
boast brazen bayonets
and unicorns flaunt ivory horns
While Bankers beam Their self-esteem
(bailed out of broker's debts),
and Bureaucrats grow rich and fat
in six-star luncheonettes,
the deep, devout and down and out
survive as silhouettes.
The Press take pains to wash our brains,
Their words have mesmerized.
So, mild and meek, we fear to speak
in worlds They’ve polarized,
and rush to war, through Satan's door,
watch cities vaporized.
The Lord of Lore tells tales of war,
of victories far away,
where eyes stare stark within the dark
and death is painted gray
on faces cold, some young, some old,
in spectral disarray.
We're taught at school the Golden Rule
for all to live in bliss,
but in the wars on foreign shores
the only rule is this:
“Yo! You and I must fight and die
inside the black abyss!”
But well alive, the Merchants thrive
on sales of armaments
that Barons built (with pride, not guilt)
to quell the dissidents,
while Partisans are posing plans
to conquer continents.
And back at home, the rumors roam
“Good times are soon to come,
despite the breeze on frozen seas
in weathers wet and numb.”
When we’re in need, They’ll intercede
with prayers if we succumb.
A Tabloid screams of phantom dreams
to keep our minds at sea
and TV skews the evening news,
ensures we all agree:
“With dynamite we fight for right
and not for tyranny.”
The brain aborts when drugged with sports
and fashions of the day,
and sevenfold, men think as told
and so are led astray;
and like some sheep (unless asleep)
they baa when they obey.
In search of sense in sounds intense
of droning drum tattoos
(the beat sustains the endless reigns
which swamp the avenues)
souls, thin and worn, traipse by, forlorn,
delayed by shackled shoes.
Ten thousand eyes belong to Spies
who watch us day and night
to track our trails and read our mails
and say They have the right
to know our thoughts and thwart our plots
to cease Their oversight.
Behind the scenes, behind the screens,
the rules are fixed, arranged
(contorted smiles conceal Their wiles -
Their goals have never changed).
When upside-down, a grin is frown
and common sense deranged.
Along the roads, the future bodes
in legends made of dust,
and ashes gray the alleyway
'neath lampposts scaled with rust.
While Divas dine with cakes and wine
pale orphans share a crust.
Dead colonies of humble bees,
a ravaged hornets' hive,
rain forests, dales and minke whales
soon nothing left alive…
a world laid waste is to Their taste,
as long as They survive.
As sunlight wanes in winter rains
and sullen shadows crawl,
the evening ebbs, and spider's webs
seem tattooed on the wall.
Upon the night the Masters write
The Final Protocol.