The day fell at its prey since man�s first fall,
To feed poison the dragon hath lifted its head,
Men have fallen into lucrative chasm,
Many �succeeded� perching on the dragon�s head,
A few �defeated� chewed �twixt the beast�s teeth.
The �victory-markers� decked themselves with stars stolen
Which ought to be all men�s property shared in oneness.
The �star-markers� began to squeeze their subjects and minions,
For minions take their root for their swampy survival,
And run deep thro� stony soil unhealthy for fertility.
They sleep on stolen beds sans shame,
Their survival runs thro� coveted bills,
And they break heads of the honest horse.
Sweet is their rest on the spiky bed of the poor,
Across their domain raise they their statues of the Poor�s sweat.
They eat doctor�s pain thro� people�s treasury,
Never have they failed to lash at talents for self glory.
Manifestos so sweet strolling at their lips;
Yet sweetest are the deeds done for their families;
Yet most bitter when hung around the Poor�s neck.
They lay roads to their family line;
But dig chasms to the poorest of folks.
Lungs stained with bribes they can�t breathe themselves;
Yet breathing thro� folk�s idiocies.
They can write stories; but not histories;
Yet what they�ve made are fallacies.
