The bells of judgement
slowly start to ring,
death rattle crackling
over the land of the free,
as all bets are off
for the one who would be king.
What kind of kingdom
is this home that no longer
contains a throne
just a ragged pile of bones?
where no one listens
as the castle is in flames
and all the cattle are gone.
Rumours circle like vultures
that the devil now prowls
through these
corridors of power.
Called in at the last hour
to heil the wannabe king
who believes he is the sun,
and that the whole world
revolves around him.
Drooling and dancing
across the TV screen
whilst innocent lights
lay snuffed out on the street.
His own private army,
lawless and free
to murder and maim
anyone that dares
to get in the way.
No questions. No trials
for the brown shirts
marching the street.
Judge. Jury.
Executioner
Where is the king of peace
to dispose of this fake-tan Fuhrer?
In the presidential retirement home
grey and white men repeat the same routines
over and over again.
War is peace. Kill. At ease.
Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Now bleat.
The bells chime out
declaring war on everyone near or far.
The senile leader dreams in monochrome memories
Fear and hate.
His own police state.
Finger primed on the button,
he slips deeper into sleep,
drool dripping down his chin
as his finger triggers the destruction
of all that sits before him.
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