Your sword drips with blood,
The weeping blood of innocence
Strangled by the putrid stench
Of showers of tyranny.

How many severed heads are in your basket?
Their mute protests pierce the clouds.
We offered you our guileless sweat
And hoped for soothing showers
To cool our fevered bodies,
But you kicked us in the face,
Leaving us with nasal haemorrhage.

Now prepare to dance to the tune
From the harsh voice of Nemesis,
Be ready to entertain the lizards
That visit your ant-infested faggots.
Our eyes were wide open
When you reached the summit of the Iroko.
Our eyes shall remain open
When you fall and burst your belly.

Poem Rating:
Click To Rate This Poem!

Continue Rating Poems

Share This Poem