The land runs red with the lives of so many.
Politicians clamoring for it to echo with their truth,
Screaming out for their own brand of justice,
The one that makes them Ceaser,
A head on their very own golden coin.
Riches mean more to them that the lives of the little people.
But doesn’t anyone hear them cry out,
“Vengeance, Vengeance, God my King,
Or at least Peace?”
But you can’t receive peace when the world cries out for war.
War on the peaceful, war on the lonely,
War on the forsaken ones until nothing is left.
And still they clamor for death over a false letter A,
And they won’t be happy until the streets are paved with blood.