Sitting throne made for scorn,
for the haunted ones, the ones we’ve known,
the course we took, the strangers look,
they pray for rain, obey and gain.
We’re stewing in blood, we’re the fortunate ones,
this privilege is your curse,
oil, blood, to dirt, the richest the worst,
there’s sinew under our nails,
and you who hurt, it’s as you thought,
we’re petty and proud like old gods,
and as you work our influence spreads,
to every continent’s end.
No peace, no friends, empire without end.
we ask again for the ancient rite,
another body laid out on the floor,
no good will come from the fortunate sons,
a cow’s throat slit for a pint of blood more.
and when you wish I hope the star,
that carries your white burden falls,
crashes, burns out, and the sky goes black,
without a sound.
I smell a dead bird, it’s you and me, given everything,
spoiled beyond belief.