A Power Gone Sour

Your tools are obsolete
banged up from your pointless tours
you wield them like a drunken marksman
aiming at empty beer drums
in make-shift sanctuaries.
Professing to isolate the innocent from pain
millions rush into your whorish cities
seeking refuge, only to have their babies
repurposed into instruments of war.

The last straw was the endgame
you dressed as a peace offering
we clapped and sang your praises
foolishly discarded your trojan face
till we felt your serrated knives
as it tore through our naivety.

Now that we have seen it all
the worst your brute minds can unleash
a new offensive has begun
where we hold all the cards
and burnt the white flags from yester-years
for we, now have in our hands - the final chapter.

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