The scent of smoke and ozone
permeates the air
of this underground, underworld lair.
On his throne of skull and bone
perched like a bird of prey, he sits.
Eyes snaking across the room,
surveying the pits.
The bowels of hell,
like a grotesque circus tent
filled with all of histories Ne'er-do-wells
and they were getting mad.
How can we do our jobs, they yell
when these humans do them twice as well.
We are supposed to cause pain and suffering
but these humans are supreme beings
when it comes to these sorts of things.
The angry voices clamoured for space
vast hall flooded with words of disgrace.
He watches over with eyes of thunder
his mood as stormy as the clouds he's under,
but in the blink of an eye
a lick of his serpent tongue
a wicked smile flickers over his face.
He tells the crowd they are wrong.
Let them have their time.
We have programmed them well.
Was it not us that put into place
the news media, that book of face,
the Internet and all of its branches
we seeded the thoughts with our advances.
Let us instead dine,
for our fight is won.
The people of earth are mine,
our job here is done.
Thanks for reading
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