The reign is spitting mad

at the huddled masses yawning,

those maggots of the night

who hatch out in the morning,

 

it seeks to hold them under

to wash them clean away,

with their plastic bags of plunder

who'd miss them anyway?

 

They have no real accounts,

no footprint in the data

their sum to naught amounts

they are dead sooner than later.

 

They're not within the system,

excluded by suspicion...

even mothers wouldn't kiss them

with their out-of-step affliction.

 

Their philosophies and creeds

are at odds with powers quest,

the prole that thinks and reads

must be parted from the rest,

 

must be ostracized and lanced

from the body politic,

must be viewed with great askance

as the seed which raised the sick.

 

And the blade that carves division

is the poisoned tool THEY hold,

that skews our once clear vision

until we do just what we're told...

 

So turn their blade and seize the hilt

and thrust with all that's right,

that those before whose blood was spilt

might rest in peace tonight.