Death By Poison Words
sing a song of the apocalypse
that starts with a pocketful of rye
thrown upon some crescent
on some fertile ground
it grew into a city
with walls that crumble now
the king who should be fixing them
is busy in his counting house
the wise men have been thinking
they claim they’ve found the truth
but all that they’ve concluded is
that each of them is right
the granaries are bulging
the rats are growing fat
the pied piper has forgotten
the tune that pipes them out
all across the city
the streets are paved with bones
the jesters have gone silent
they’ve all run out of jokes
the prophets and vestal virgins
the oracles and priests
have all committed suicide
death by poison words
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