THE FIRE THE CHIEFS ARE FANNING

 From both sides of their mouths lies spill

These consciences have stayed fallow thus it is hard to teal

The darkness here is not scared of light

The tiny voice inside has lost this fight

Those that write right have lost their quill

It is not that we are oblivious of the forbidden feast in the village square

It is just that we no longer care

It is not that we don't know what the roaches have to share

Or that the rationing is not fair

We are the onlookers waiting for when the fires will flair

There is a ghost with a whip

Actions are dear but words are cheap

We juggle issues and nurse frivolties

Who cares since there are no ties to the casualties

Administer this corpse a bag of drip

This head has been severed from its body

The grave will always win, no need to lobby

Let the body go where it please

You will be surprise how the mountain will go into a keg with ease

Look closely greed is now a hobby

Without will power will make you a slave

Thus let every man dig his own grave

The chiefs are feasting on a broken bridge

There are hungry snakes between the ridge

They must be weary when the fall will begin