Fat cats of the war machines,
Map the spoils of conquest.
War chiefs bed with greedy fiends
To enslave the world's weakest.

Deceptions of injury
Ignite the fires of pride.
Conjured lies of treachery
Fool all to push love aside.

What good is war anyway
For politics and power?
As the fat man has his say,
The son goes six feet under.

When the drafted blood is poured
Out onto the desert sand,
The supplied poor tastes the sword
As the rich dine on demand.

For investment protection,
The blameless was sent to hell,
And to mark the occasion,
A jingle of thirty fell.

Wayward and lone, I gaze out
Past the harlequin of red.
In this dark mire of doubt,
The sunrise is for the dead.