Poem: The Prostitute And The Merchants

Cry for the Prostitute, destitute and her merchants

The political machine is turning

And the sour milk of our generation

Will keep on churning, yearning

Not for better but for worse

Mr Politician we erase your words

Your amnesia of wars will become a curse

Sorry lies, oops I mean lines on your teleprompter

Puppets for the illuminators, ‘Ill be back’ Terminator.

Men in Black, flash, back track before you are beaten off it

Black in men, fight and sell themselves to run for office

Well they say if you fall off the horse get back on it, novice

What break’s the camel back? the last straw on it,

Meaning free thinking, hoodwinking

Let’s be honest…

You know something is wrong

You wake up knowing the air is stale;

Your bread is stale, you’re drunk on ale

Always accumulating things you don’t need on sale.

You feel you are an actor on a stage

Like the Will Turman show

Behind your fake smile will the true man show?

The machine is feeding off your wage

Like Rhesus monkeys rattled in a cage

Only to torture you

To keep you half awake, and totally a slave

Trading human blood for oil, so crude!

We cast our lots for position and power, while they poison our food

Who? Ask W.H.O. Who?

We objectify other races and subject them to our abuse

Because we are victimised and this is where our hate arise

But we still try and look surprised

When they retaliate,

Emancipate yourself before the Stockholm syndrome

Takes holds and doesn’t let go

We the victims addicted to the system, the downtown man

Who segregates his heart from what we understand,

Another defective plan

The upper crust with their upper-hand

But I hear the masses groan… You cant cut off the hands that feed you?

What about cutting off the hands that beat you?

How can the rates of crime decrease but social evils never cease

Well that hypothesis, my living thesis leads me to ask

Are bad cops committing treason?

Or are the good robbers just having a better season?

Win-win situation already in place

Like fat cat bribes,

Cream of the crop circle’s wonders and signs

Is their agenda alien or great marketing

To sell the force of

Capitalism’s pride?

Yes, watch us with our open eyes wide

Shut, in the ghetto, in a rut

Shacked up in estates or shanty huts.

Looting, rioting, or marching against cuts

Against the puppets we vote in with our ballots

The prostitute and her merchants are not listening,

She don’t business as long you mind your business

This diva doesn’t kiss or tell, for high water or hell.

And she’ll out all those who snitches

To protect her riches in Babel

She sit on top of an ocean, slow rocking to the motion

Stars singing their devotions

Disguised in their constellations, their one eyed Trojan.

They seem to be drunk off her love potions

Her humps her humps, her lovely lady lumps

Consolidating all our debts in one large sum

But when she comes to collect,

You can try and run to dens, mountains, or Tibet

But since you empowered this whore,

She’ll repay you with death

Today, her ‘beauty’ glitters even though it’s not gold

Tomorrow, her silver tongue will bring your funeral.

This prostitute must have been born a cancer

‘Coz she’ll move side to side to dodge giving you answers

Her merchants once chased after women of standards;

Now cheating on their purity to submit to

The mother of prostitutes, their master

Illegitimate bastards coz their Father cannot fathom

They would defile themselves for a cheap and quick orgasm

Left forever consequences of empty passions,

now blood thirsty 2-faced assassins.

They smile for the people and kiss your baby

But they are building the ark to ensure their own safety

When billows roll and the rain pours fast,

Those not already secured in the elite class

Will be left on the outside of the ark

To either drown or desperately starve

Decadency and fancy lights lore the mind

She’ll entice you to her bed with foreplay to buy some time,

But once she has you, she’ll tattoo you

On your forehead or right hand “mine”

And like Delilah, She’ll blind you

Cut off your hair, tie you to a chair and despise you.

Her time is coming

When the revolution is summoned

In wars, in words, or in rhymes

And even if I am killed, others will rise

For free thinker’s fire will never out but multiply

Because Lady Truth from the ashes, still her offsprings survive!

The Prostitute’s city will burn with brimstone and sulphur

Retribution for her wicked culture like a vulture

Will be paid back in thousand folds for her acts so vulgar

But now those with their gold, oil, and slave will suffer

For who will buy from them now?

The whole world will watch the political Babylon burn down,

Walls will crumble at a trumpet sound

All those standing who refused to bow

To the system, to the Man, to the golden cow.

Will triumph and taste of freedom for the first time in history

And give their future generations a chance to unravel the mystery,

Which is ‘what is the opposite of our human story of misery?’

Death to the whips that strikes righteous servants

Death to the ships that brings back sweat, blood, tears and burdens,

Death to those slow to speak against her crimes and perversions

Death to the Prostitute and her merchants!

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