The weight of shame Hangs easy from the necks of
Those chosen for power Those soulless, rotting men
Who sleep soundly to the roar Of burning cities
Their legacy means nothing at all
Empty lineage
The winners write the history But the day will come And their hand will break And when they die
Let their ideas die with them Like the mothers of those burning children
We'll put those ghosts to rest for good.
Graves marked with charred wood
Fuck your Great War

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