In a musty dark gutter,
Beaten down by the black rain,
His only means of shelter,
Soggy propaganda pamphlets and outdated market pages,
Of corrupt news branches and a government gone wrong,
A leader stringing up his country like a marionette for sing-song
and dance, over the fire, fueled by blood money and injustice.
wringing out the rags, down to the last drop,
trickling down, but getting caught,
by the big, fat grease traps, throwing their kindling into
the evergrowing flames, roasting their morsels and parting with
trickling it down for the "lesser" to taste
With a rusty bin lid as his gong,
A dead fountain his soap box,
Black pen and old pizza box his megaphone,
the streets echo his cries, his ranting in protest,
the brick walls of false safety of the higher up, taking his rebellion and mockingly throwing it back at him.
The small voice of the revolution, only to be mocked by the brick walls of a shattered economy of the marionette.
A freeverse regurgitation of what you get when you take a Stan, two hours of sleep, 45 mg of amphetamine salts, a glass of coffee, Finals, and a flobots album. Enjoy.