Weakened by the grip of a fever dream called State I will not bend the knee to petty men's tired fate the retread tireless arrogance of simple machinations conscribed and contrived to all of us, prostrate.
neither beg nor bow no more nor grovel will I ounce proclaim the greatness of the bureaucrats or craven mens scheming doubts to shameless manipulate all circumstances to their ill-gotten gain
whatever half-sincere ploys at feigned vain olive branches trample them under foot and make olive oil in the trampling to anoint kings your own cutting branches from the grasping kudzu of lesser men's maniacal ambitions If wishes were horses, if warhorses, wishes.
A sea of clambering clamoring ladder climbers As if ascent from inundated babylon No ark to save them but the people they step on. Let em all drown below.
Let the walls to fall down upon their own inferno Sodom, Gomorrah, Jericho. The storm, the flood, derecho.
anon 1 points 1 week ago
Lol. Worthy of a slow clap.