Tell me, where's the Rhyme Minister
to this: Your Royal Tragedy?
in some pockmarked alleyway,
swapping lies with the pot puffing poets.
a new policy,
penned of acrid smoke and empty hope,
is in effect.
'the King's feet are never to touch ground (we wouldn't want god getting any ideas, would we?).'
and the serfs are breaking
their sinew spines,
praying to empty skies
and holy lies
for the king to fall.
So just give it up
my fighting friends.
no shit hole soul
could put together
this humpty dumpty fucker again.
the fields are burning
but slaves are learning;
infants choke and cry,
but time can tell you anything you wanna hear
if you just let the illness in.
maybe there's some power
in oppression after all.
