The Virgin Dead

The seeds of war are planted in the soil of greed within the garden of an unholy trinity. Children of the poor sent off to war to weave the satin feathers of a murder of political crows. The war machine is a stomping beast spitting out bones vomiting over the centuries. The children of the poor taking their last ride to the heart of Uncle Sams green-eyed pyre. They'll will never have wives nor children riding bikes bells to carry their name onto an endless summer breeze. The parents suffering from chronic mind bleed... War will never end black rock and lock heed martin need a war to test the devils' wares turn a pretty profit. Politicians fluffing portfolios blood dripping from satin pockets. Children of the privileged will never see battlefields of broken spirits and open chests. Parents of the virgin dead forever patching broken nests.