The Feast

They feast, even though they’re not crippling over with hunger.
They eat the carcasses of mediocrity and the lost, not the brave.
Their minds are infected, and they are thirsty warmongers.
They will follow their greed to the grave.
From podia, they preach of destruction and despair.
Like ravenous pigs, their filth divides all.
The weight of their breath stifles the air,
permeating like cigarette smoke, staining the walls.
Their banquet tables are the downtrodden.
They energize at those who crawl.
Livening only at the demoralized,
their stance remains hysterical.
From attrition, they rise and fraternize.
They’re well-dressed primates with whitened teeth at best.
A honeyed drop of mint on the tongue, dear boy,
hides the stench of what they do best.
Shiny appearance glazes over the masses’ eyes—
a blinding tactic for the rotting core they cover.
Do not be fooled by their sweet-smelling lies,
nor wait to take action until after you discover:
They are not well-intentioned with bleeding hearts,
and if you want to win, you must take out the head.
Now you know, you’re not after the well-dressed marionettes,
but the puppeteers, instead.
So, welcome to L’Opéra des Politiciens, dear girl.
The scissors of knowledge can lessen the sting.
But first, you must stop allowing yourself to be fooled.
Then, you’ll know how to cut each party’s string.

2 thoughts on “The Feast

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