From the mines of empty-bellied babes
And the bitter tears of lactating widows
Through the epitaphs of our hopeless lives
We raise gold for his majesty—our king.
It matters not that there are thorns in our heads
Or that the assurance of another meal is a fickle dream
It is of little consequence that our anus harbours pus-filled boils.
With cracked lips, we fawn and grovel
Grateful for the crumbs we lick off his table.
We are content to live in the kennel of dogs
Bathing with the spittle of pigs
If we receive a lumpy morsel
No matter how rancid it may be.
Championing his noble cause, we melt our bald heads
Under raging suns
To defend his walls, we sacrifice our sons and brothers and fathers.
On elevated dining tables of falsehood
All for the approval of his majesty, our king.
At the end,
With bayonets protruding from our hearts
We are honoured to have served
And we die knowing that our blood will serve
To enrich the coffers of his majesty—our king.
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