To Subdue the Fury of the Thunderbolts of Heaven

Or, Plato's Grotto

“To quiver with your fright, or tremble with your impotent rage- other than that, you may as well just die…”

These are the words that are nailed to your cage, above the filth in which you lie.

A blasphemy and abomination- this raped and robbed landscape… that I'll now hail as misled Plato's Grotto.

The Alchemy of our Devastation, as the velvet curtains drape… across a screen with “That's all Folks!” emblazoned as their motto,

And clink their crystal in a toast, to god, and queen, and all of that,

And swell their chests with pomp, and boast- this fraud, obscene!- can't you smell the rat?

How many hands there might I see, raised in righteous indignation?

And how many soul's yearn to be free, instead of braised in degradations?

Though I'll not likely hear this Score, all drowned out by these Sounds of War…

As fatcat generals beat their drums, and would jail meek children as “weak" and “bums” (…how ‘bout we all just give 'em our thumbs!?).

Scram you filthy Son's of Mars- I've had enough of these foul scams!

You'd have destroyed the very stars, and have sacrificed as little lambs,

All of our sons, and all of our daughters, to the fires this hell devours.

Weighed by the ton, and fed to the slaughter, and yet these liars swell in powers?

Something's mighty, terribly wrong with this faulty, skewed equation...

… How that weak's now been made strong- could it be with salted, stewed persuasion?

While taking your feed from the so-called master,

And wasting the seed, while provoking disaster,

The powers that now claim to be, and would have forced- both you and me-

To join along in their dark practice, like that day atop Mt. Hermon;

Or out upon a storm-swept sea, or bent quite down, upon our knees,

To sing along, while the madmen enact this, like a 1930’s German…

Surely might we rise to bale… out this craft that rides this swell?

Or must we drown as mangy rats, bedded down within the dark sargassum?

Or coast it down t’ the bowels of hell, with no one left to tell our tale,

To wrestle with aristocrats (upon whom’s not lost our dry sarcasm!).

They eat it up as for their meat, and cast the crumbs unto their dogs,

And revel in debauchery, all lusty for abomination.

Their dark summation's now complete- they've flipped the switch that drives the cogs-

Pray the devils', as an augury, now lost in Truth's obliteration…

Who raise their towers as lightning rods, and tempt the fury of indignation,

And raise the stakes of this foul game (though, in fact, it is not such!).

And praise the powers of their false gods, and stack the jury in segregation,

So on His namesake’s, to place the blame (of their dark pact, with it's cold touch).

But here they come, straight down from heaven, though no few here had the sense to've known it,

And at these bolts, fell blinded to the ground.

No paltry sum must now be leaven, for now it's clear that we have blown it,

As immeasurable volts left few to stand around…

Just burnt crumbs are all that's left, of this, our bread, that would sustain us,

And with only rats and roaches left to feast?

These, our threads, pulled from the weft, and how the woof could not restrain us,

Unless The Truth Approaches Towards the Beast.

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