KILL THE RICH

 DISCLAIMER:  THIS SITE DOES NOT ADVOCATE THE MURDERING OF THE RICH OR WEALTHY.  IT IS SOLELY INTENDED TO BRING  ATTENTION TO THE PLIGHT OF THE POOR OF THE WORLD.
 
  "War of the Mongers"
 
From up on the hill, can be heard, a war chant.
The deafening shrill, of an angry man's rant.
The rich and powerfully, dance round the fire.
The youth of the poor, prepare for the pyre.
 
A call to bear arms, rings out through the land
to join in  the fray, with weapon in hand.
A  little catch phase, an add on TV
a nice little ditty,  "be all you can be".
 
An army of one, all trained to kill,
Follow the leader, well you know the drill.
To serve and protect, a nice little creed,
a clever disguise, to hide someone's greed.
 
For country and king, and yes even you,
All for the red, the white, and the blue.
Molded and shaped, with misguided trust,
taught to believe, that the cause will be just.
 
So the battle is forged,  the troops are sent in,
as bullets start flying,  the death count begins.
Bombs start their decent, from planes high above,
killing and maiming those, other folks love.
 
From dusk until dawn, the rockets red glare,
a constant assault, full force brought to bare.
The smoke and the ashes, soon fill up the sky,
all round the city, is heard the death cry.
 
Ground forces deployed, with attached bayonets,
a pistol,  a knife, and grenades I would  bet,
An M16 rifle, loads of ammo to boot,
the men have been primed, guns readied to shoot.
 
The battle is fierce,  to conquer the foe,
kill or be killed,  the main rule, don't you know.
A bullet flies by, so close to your head,
and there, right beside you, your buddy lays dead.
 
A limb over here, someone's head over there,
blood spattered remains, strewn about everywhere.
A ghoulish nightmare, just a horrible sight,
while the mongers of war, plan the spoils of the fight.
 
The body bags stuffed, with the parts they can find,
shipped back to their homes, with a note that seems kind.
His first name was Robert, but you called him Bob,
We're here to inform you, that he did a great job.
 
There's a flagged draped coffin, and a six gun solute,
Some Brass say he's sorry, like he gives a hoot.
Some family and friends, are gathered in sorrow.
Their little boy's dead, he'll see no tomorrow.
 
The casket's then lower, down six feet or so,
it's covered with dirt, with a tombstone to show.
Here lies my son Bobby, he answered the call,
He gave up his life, he sure gave it his all.
 
A trumpet is heard, round the funeral ground,
a time honored dirge,  the saddest of sound.
A song for the dead, the Grim Reaper's tune,
One soldier's dire fate, that come way to soon.
 
The flag is then folded, with precision and care.
Presented to mom, with an cold icy stare.
"Your son was a soldier, he just did his duty,
They fight and they die, but we'll claim the booty."
 
They'll make pretty speeches, award shinny medal,
to the kin of the slain, a debt they must settle.
Then off to their mansions, in stretch limousines,
so pleased with themselves, a conscience scrubbed clean.
 
So hail to the chief,  and all of his crew,
the slick politicians, and businessmen too.
When our troops win out,  we'll slice up the pie,
Then our profit potential, will soon reach the sky.
 
The war of the mongers is set to begin,
A capitol venture, a big corporate sin.
Soon death and destruction, but do they give a fuck,
Their only objective's, the almighty buck.
 
So what's it about, this thing they call war ?
Its' cruel and it's evil, so what's it all for ?
Is it for country, or for that black gold ?
The true reasons why, we may never be told.
 
December 22, 2002  by Daniel Glover

 

  

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