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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.
Copyright ©
Anthony Biaanco
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