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Bad Discussions
(Not a nice poem)
By the pound what a sound,
in morbid delay at death's door.
Cutting off bits and chunks of souls,
too busy to be made whole.
Now withered on the blocks,
slaves to the lochs...
where things beneath the water,
must eat and cheat death,
for a day and a night,
and...
a day.
Sold withered youth,
a new battalion of the young,
under the rule of an order,
that echoes a foreign land.
A disaster of repeat potential,
the death of millions,
a blemish on the necktie;
of our history.
The hanging tree,
will readily accept all that
sign on,
and replace all that will not,
with chance passers-by.
They will be fed.
The rest...
will be dead.
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