Doing The Rotten Rounds

"Don't worry about the natives"

The destruction of all that is wonderful
For a ghastly barrel
Of black gold
Carpet bomb yourself a new personality
Napalm victory into your palms sweaty and wet
And watch
As acrid
Dense
Scorching cordite clouds
Drift over charred bodies
With no movement
And no signs
Of weeping
Gathering up your commodities
Like a fat gluttonous child
You spit dummies onto roaring fires
Engulfing a recently flattened village
Filled to the brim
With the jewels of the earth
And as the blood red sun
Is obscured
By serpents
Spewing the clouds of your cruelty
The wagon of greed
Slowly starts to trundle away
Followed closely
By soulless
Agents of doom
Wandering like sheep
With no shepherd to be seen
Yet enjoying bloodlust cravings
In cold
Dark
Tortured
Internal
Lament



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Written by Spartacus Mole

Collage by Heston Quiff