The Blackened Poem by Mason Maestro

There's a posse in a polygon cooking up the future
With standard-issue world command
Bent on left play crisis plots
And it's served up piping hot

Drawing migrants looking for a handout
They're the new dependent beggars corps
Could this be what they are meant for?
It's a blackened harbinger to war

Bleeding from our blue color necks
Pay for their homes and flat screen TVs
Deafening silence to their indiscretion
The blackened run-up to insurrection