New World Order

The Rulers wield their silver shields, wear golden coronets while warders guard the prison yard, boast brazen bayonets and unicorns flaunt ivory horns defending martinets. While Bankers beam Their self-esteem (bailed out of broker's debts), and Bureaucrats grow rich and fat in six-star luncheonettes, the deep, devout and down and out survive as silhouettes. The Press take pains to wash our brains, Their words have mesmerized. So, mild and meek, we fear to speak in worlds They’ve polarized, and rush to war, through Satan's door, watch cities vaporized. The Lord of Lore tells tales of war, of victories far away, where eyes stare stark within the dark and death is painted gray on faces cold, some young, some old, in spectral disarray. We're taught at school the Golden Rule for all to live in bliss, but in the wars on foreign shores the only rule is this: “Yo! You and I must fight and die inside the black abyss!” But well alive, the Merchants thrive on sales of armaments that Barons built (with pride, not guilt) to quell the dissidents, while Partisans are posing plans to conquer continents. And back at home, the rumors roam “Good times are soon to come, despite the breeze on frozen seas in weathers wet and numb.” When we’re in need, They’ll intercede with prayers if we succumb. A Tabloid screams of phantom dreams to keep our minds at sea and TV skews the evening news, ensures we all agree: “With dynamite we fight for right and not for tyranny.” The brain aborts when drugged with sports and fashions of the day, and sevenfold, men think as told and so are led astray; and like some sheep (unless asleep) they baa when they obey. In search of sense in sounds intense of droning drum tattoos (the beat sustains the endless reigns which swamp the avenues) souls, thin and worn, traipse by, forlorn, delayed by shackled shoes. Ten thousand eyes belong to Spies who watch us day and night to track our trails and read our mails and say They have the right to know our thoughts and thwart our plots to cease Their oversight. Behind the scenes, behind the screens, the rules are fixed, arranged (contorted smiles conceal Their wiles - Their goals have never changed). When upside-down, a grin is frown and common sense deranged. Along the roads, the future bodes in legends made of dust, and ashes gray the alleyway 'neath lampposts scaled with rust. While Divas dine with cakes and wine pale orphans share a crust. Dead colonies of humble bees, a ravaged hornets' hive, rain forests, dales and minke whales soon nothing left alive… a world laid waste is to Their taste, as long as They survive. As sunlight wanes in winter rains and sullen shadows crawl, the evening ebbs, and spider's webs seem tattooed on the wall. Upon the night the Masters write The Final Protocol.