Mercenary

I’m a merchant like any other,
My stock is simply more dire,
I’m dealing in hollow-points and land grabs,
Peddling grenades and blitzkrieg tactics,
I’m a soldier for hire,
Some would say a monster,
But a man as got to eat,

For the right price,
I’ll holiday in any time zone,
My merchandise is open to all,
A suppressive tide of lead,
Or a shot through an innocent forehead,
It’s a sincere day of work,
With some sin for good measure,

And if I fall,
In some backwater abroad,
None shall mourn for me,
I’m just a tool,
And it’s just another transaction,
At least somebody is getting paid,
War is just business after all.

Arms Dealers

I do wonder if demons walk the Earth,
For some fit the role,
Not in scorched skin and horns,
But with infernal actions,
With a very human tint,
Supping on coinage rather than worship,

These jackboot and tie creatures,
Instead of fire and brimstone,
They breath ammunition casings and rocket pods,
Selling craters to the highest bidder,
They don’t demand blood for their rituals,
Just a few extra zeroes on an invoice,

In lieu of a spell or summoning,
Receive a revolution or coup,
Rifles and pistols and bombs,
Oh my,
These hellions can provide so much,
Rivers of red for stacks of green,

Don’t be so surprised,
You know what they say,
Some want to watch the world burn,
Others want to sell the gasoline.

Art of Hate

I thought we were enlightened,
My countrymen and allies abroad,
That we were better than this,
Moulding these sculptures and monoliths,
Red paint and hateful idols,
Closed fists and xenophobia,
Such a supposed beacon of good,
Should never mass-produce such artwork,

Why has hate propagated?
Can we no longer sketch with empathy?
Former heroes are called dissidents,
Victims of war regarded as tyrants,
I don’t want to believe we hate like this,
Tell me which is more loathsome,
Picket lines or corruption?
Makeshift boats or bigotry?

Do we so readily hate the desperate?
Loathe the weak?
Scorn the refugee?
Is this some twisted renaissance?
One where the art we’ve mastered is hate.

The Chanter

Have you ever met the Chanter?
He is a man,
Or sometimes a woman,
This figure takes on many bodies,
But you can always spot them,
Or rather hear them,

The foolish always shout the loudest,
And that is what comprises the Chanter,
Whether he or she or they,
An obnoxious town crier,
Shouting over all the sober discourse,
Clanging a bell in the ears of all,

This Chanter can be anybody,
Nationality or class be damned,
Perhaps this being is on the street,
A raucous bigot or village idiot,
Or maybe they are in office,
A vulgar oaf in charge,

You see,
Volume is often utilised over sense,
Shouting down rather debating,
That is what the Chanter is,
A brass bell ringing within a conversation,
A foil to sense and decorum.

The Broth

We as a race are a broth,
A primordial soup of sorts,
Despite the delectable taste,
It’s an uneven brew,
Unequal in its very composition,
Poverty and fracking reflected in its surface,

The ingredients are indeed all present,
The boiled water of first breathes,
Chicken stock and upbringings,
The ever reliable starches of the working class,
Spices from every corner of the Earth,
Taken and gathered,
Governing herbs to hold it together,
Theoretically,
Chopped vegetable and bankers tax cuts,

Inequality is a salt,
An unfortunate seasoning,
In this broth of a nation,
In this broth of a world,
The majority blend delectably,
The scum invariably rises to the top.

House Of Cards

Society is a house of cards,
Made up of jokers,
Teetering,
Collapsing under its own unease,
The decadence and cruelty,
They didn’t listen,
A house can’t be built on inequality,
And fools make poor craftsmen,

When winter descends,
Some will be torched,
To heat the hearths of the rest,
And as we all fall down,
You can be sure,
The top cards will elope upon the wind,
The rest will be mulch,
A pile on the floor.

Empires Fall

There once was an empire,
Lost in time,
Where bodily autonomy was fiction,
Profaned by a cult of suffering,
A power structure built upon hate,
Ivory towers built upon little girls backs,

This empire had been divided long ago,
Called united only by the mad,
Its women failed by those on high,
Some condemned to death or abuse,
Some reduced to incubators,
Liberty swiped by old men,

Evil is the herald of an empires collapse,
Some courts hear no justice,
And lessons are never learned,
Domination is not unity,
Red white and blue stained in ash,
The flag doesn’t represent the whole,

So rightly protest dear sisters,
Like Rome and Xerxes before it,
All empires fall,
And just like the Ostrogoths of old,
It’ll be torn brick by brick,
Burned down by its women.

People

I fear that masses are being castigated,
For the vices of a single man,
A fine line lies betwixt leaders and despots,
Power can be reaped dishonestly,
And often is,
Then wielded against citizenry and neighbour alike,

The people are not their nations sins,
Nor its aggression,
The people do not crave bloodshed,
Even soldiers rarely wish to kill,
They too cry as bombs drop over borders,
Not a KGB smile to be seen,

So before labelling them marauders,
Devils in human guise,
Just remember,
We the people,
They the people,
All are people.

Borders

This world is split into petty fiefdoms,
Swathes of land divided haphazardly,
Lines painted in blood and oil,
An unnatural barrier with great sway,
With the common folk cut betwixt masters,
Made unwilling foes,
A race split into us and them,
Fighting wars over borders pencilled in by dead men,

As they laugh in their coffins,
Already bedded with their winnings,
These lines,
Their artistic carving of dirt,
Impels us to be unwitting conscripts,
Speaking in munitions rather than parlance,
Trading antagonisms as readily as grain,
Dividing us ever further.

Boys Club

Within those halls of Oxford,
You’ll find the boys club,
No girls or plebs permitted,
A bit of an Eton mess,
A dessert reserved for the select few,
Wealth always finding a seat at the table,

Like feudalism never died,
They toast and have their cake,
And wear their pretentious bibs,
Taught all the tricks of the gentry,
Feasting as the yobs chew dust,
As the elderly expire in the cold,

These lads are bound for greatness,
Not by virtue of competence,
But by being allowed a slice of that pudding,
Like something out of a pantomime,
It’s enough to make the common man sigh,
A reason to think lowly of the highly.