Seven scurved jags slashed on chest with soiled nails,
Splattered maroons drowned by tears off the temples,
Harsh Hails snap, ticking through tornado gales,
Billed masses shrouded dead via shrapnelled shackles.

I’m just half a score, though five’s in the mob,
Lost in inceptioned dreams’ dream, gruesome plight,
Besmirched, so seldom supper’s a corn cob,
Nonstop regret since dwelled off the oceans’ might.

Burnt stray small pockets, yet deep down us basks,
Rotund felines curling its own whiskers,
To each its own, armed tanks on top of banks,
Heed all, and bear rise as change freethinkers.

Feigned pure angels, but hell sure acting none,
Vile jingo rat race, burn like the sheen sun!