Taxing the Poor

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The drumbeats of doom loom over the morning

The low sounds of death,

each note pounds a warning. 

As old men consult, and generals chatter

The young men prepare, their entrails to scatter.

They prey to their gods, and hate their own mothers

For bringing them into a world, where their brothers

Are cursed by their kings, with glorious lying

Conscripted at birth, for this day of dying.

The drumbeats now cease, replaced by the voices

Of desperate boys who never had choices.

In moments, their flesh, will meet swords and axes

For this is how poor men, have always paid taxes..