May it cause them grief,
these monsters who
ply the clay of our misery with
their thick and impervious
fingers.
Self-styled royalty without
pedigree or honor other than
their own enrichment,
their own engorgement.
The thick blood of an insect
humps its way through
their merchant hearts.
For all the ivy that covers
the walls of their moneyed lairs
they still have the souls
of whores and thieves.
What predictable atrocities will
follow when
all their worst blood stained
fears of what
we are capable
become gloriously
true.
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