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Poem

They might be our real enemies
But they don’t smoke as much cannabis, 
Your schemed wars thriller to the vulture
And that’s the truest darkest picture!

They scramble for our lowest money,
Never its restrictions finding funny;
Their brothers reviving our fainting shoes:
The hardly polished after their stubborn use;
With us initiating the silly prices 
That regard gives none to how cost rises…
And when our women at them looked twice 
They wouldn’t fail to reciprocate thrice!

Then, their rich ones are spoilers of the game;
All of them grabbing foxes, far from tame;
One begins to love bloated riches 
One begins to be worse than witches…

So please no unconventional remedy 
For a problem from a still guess enemy.

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