Fodder Poem by Anthony A. Toorie

They were masters of their domain
Forming enemies of tides of men,
Upon their high encrusted seats,
Cigarette ash an' fine brandy stains on the parchment of fate
Signs of thinking diplomats!
No! hypocrites
A Cup bottomless,
Not met by the graveness of greed.
Runneth inward!
Because in that seat of death
Where politicians wade through their deep pockets,
The great fire that stirs,
Flickers!
That burns through the men of our nation
Snuffed out by piercing rounds!
Wicked out by the hands of the demigods,
By an Amateur of the Balance.