I want for you to tell Christ

That his quick glass is almost up

And the moon’s light

Shall gleam (shine) on all of the four corners

Residing idly in the room

Where the devious shadows lay

And hide in wake

 

Our disappointment; a damned futile attempt

That bigoted, civil recreation

Which has belong to our conquerors

I say I am perturbed

Because I truly am

With all of the level headed Idiots

Who play no part in the games?

 

Where victim and victor shall separate

And those who names are rendered

Will have a price claim on their morality

 

These, impotent Copycats

Chauvinistic drugs that dreg up the place

Causing a foul, foolhardy stench within the very tip of my nostrils

Pragmatic, intolerant and belligerence