Chant To The Harlot Poem by Silas Rosalie Dumont

In the cold white lights of a subway station
You can see the roots of an unnamed nation
A nation of the young who are sick and tired
Of being made to pass on through the fire
No more will we groan, no more will we sigh
No more will we look up to your barren sky
We are withering away in your wilderness
The pressure is building, it's starting to hiss
We must tell you now, your warning is this
We can no longer sit, the boiler's exploding
Wrath is here, you will die for your goading
And though you deride us for our supposed sloth
Your destruction is swift like a flame to your moth
We are a ton of feathers, heavier than bricks
Guilt weighing heavy, and cracks you can't fix
Babylon the Great, come tumbling down
At the hands of the beast, in blood you'll drown