Old scratch walks up and down in this world. Not some misunderstood romantic tragic figure, but the father of lies.
Old scratch stands behind the curtain and raids the caravans loaded down with good intentions He is the wicked warlord in the horn of Africa.
He is the self serving dictator with ridiculous hair murdering his family in paranoid fits while his people eat bark in hungry desperation.
He is dengue ebola, ecoli, the plague.. He is rage and landmines in the soccer fields He is dysentery and influenza and krokodil.
Old scratch walks to in fro in this land with infectious breath and violent laughter He is the womb of grief and lost hope.
twenty thousand crying skeletons with bloated bellies blinded by thirsty flies each and every day old scratch ushers them to the only relief they will ever find. while another twenty thousand wait in line.
We give it a face, a voice, and a name. I'm so glad we have old scratch to blame, otherwise whose fault would all this madness be?