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Every line is a dirge,
of ashes to dust,
a cavalcade at the point of a gun.

Every line is a perjury,
down the throat to your lust,
and everything else they'll starve you of.

And the one passes on to the many headed tyrant.
And the one becomes just one more head of the hydra.

In the dark or the sun,
the scaffold in front,
a cavalcade at the point of a gun,

You rot in the dirt,
returned to the earth,
from which you were an immaculate still birth.

With every man for his brother, comes hell and high water: a short drop, deathlike sentence on acceptance.

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