Us Are Bled.

Don't sing me limp sugary songs
sung by simpering in-tune fools
who think waspish ivy league sounds
could be a disarmament tool.
I have no wish to be too cruel
but strumming strings with noddy heads
vapid eyes, thinking " ain't we cool "
snake-charm's killers to make us dead!
 
War's blood and guts and jack-boot pound
not some romantic troubadour's duel,
it's, " hard rains gonna fall," killing grounds,
from dictator's death-wish to rule.
Not mess of potage from music school
but Make ME Great Again as said
by would-be tyrants as they drool
'bout counting grifted unearned bread.
 
While democracy is still unbound
disarm these dangerous, sad, old ghouls,
we have the will it can still be found
but not when silenced by hang-man rules.
Don't vote em in, don't provide fuel
for greedy male ego's to be fed
their cash-rich schemes, we get gruel,
they strop war-knives but, us are bled.