They feast
on the burnt flesh of the weak
poor bones make the stock taste sweet
give it a unique blend
oven ready
ready to dig in
the fat of the land enjoy their daily feast
whilst we burn in flames
our collective cries turned to wine
to wash down any gristle
this meal is fine
the greasy ones whistle
They chow down on pulled poor,
slathered in BBQ sauce
made from blood of distant lands
blood that dripped through their oily hands
the finest chefs - never need to rush
would make Ramsay blush
how they turn the bones of withered and weak
into a banquet of the meek
They gorge on the obscene
dribbling down their double chins
like rivers of agony and misery
their plates piled high
never too many poor for this pie
picking bits from between their teeth
they smile, as the next course enters the room
and another community is put to their doom
Like lambs to slaughter
a human hotpot,
gunshot picked from mouthfuls of chewed up slop
the fat of the land never stop
devouring everything it's got
the poor, the weak, outsiders to the elite
all make a tasty treat,
every single day of the week
Thanks For Reading.
Peace, Love and Poetry.
Kyle.
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