Sickened Pride

The country is painted red By the hand that seals our fate The pain requires of a poet a sad poem The hope of the supplicants Is sickened by the festering ulcer of infamy The absence of civility Nourishes the greed That thins our pride Our lungs are spent From straining to be heard Above the loud crack of the whip But- As sure as day follows night; The steaming venom of bitterness- Will Intoxicate our conscience And will stir the rage of the Beast Hiding in our chest!