There's A Man Called Mr. Genocide Poem by Mark Heathcote

There's a man called Mr. Genocide.
He does all he can to make things right.
For his address, his own sake
He's taken all the ballot boxes.
And he's chucked them into the blood-drenched snow.
People don't know what to do.
Or where to even go to vote.

There's a man called Mr. Genocide.
He's now running the whole god damn show.
People said it would never happen.
People said it would never happen again
But they all sat back and decided
They would not clap or join in the parade.

People said it would never happen.
People said it would never happen again
But they all sat back and sang like mockingbirds.
As the victims went unheard forever more
People said it would never happen.
People said it would never happen again.
But all the same, it happened.
And a lot of good people joined Salem's Lot.

And Mr. Genocide took power.
Of a new empire and an aspiring young flower
And no one looked any higher.
Then his blood-stained combat trousers
They were all licking his boots like miniature Schnauzers.
Pleased he still needed people,
People pleading on their bended knees
Pleased, glad he still -needed a corrupt few
Who'd do his bidding anything at all?

There's a man called Mr. Genocide.
He has a private seller door to his catacombs.
Who would give up your heart to the devil?
If it pleases him and serves him right tonight.
There's a man called Mr. Genocide.
He started without a fight.
Because you showed
You were afraid of the leaden darkness in the night.
Before you could even pick up a gun and clean up the dead.

Mr Genocide He poisoned the water well with your blood.
But all you could think of is will he show you any love?
You now think you are vile right down to your soul.
And hope now for a bullet hole.
Right through your head, you wish you were dead.
But that's never going to happen.
Because your heart is blind to the darkness
That surrounds you when others fall and join his catacomb wall.
A trophy buried in stone, blood and bone.