Ritual Of The Degenerate
They storm solemn city,
city of succour,
citadel of black gold,
clutching smouldering machines,
blasting big bullets
on biceps and bossoms of decency.
You turn now my city
sin city of satan,
you servants of sorrow,
of distorted humanity,
descendants of depraved pedigree,
purchased by poluted personages
to pour poison
on our polity.
You rouse me now
from sumptuous sleep,
servants of sin,
at this unsaintly hour,
this boundary hour
of dusk and dawn.
It matters not to you
that my humanity,
in that election,
in that ritual of the degenerate.
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