Thirteen of ten, twenty twenty three.

The holy ground has penitrated thee.


The race is on,

to get down under,

throwing pawns down,

to further the venacular.


Someone thought it was a good idea,

to mame and pain rather than suffer.

Did they care about love and joy,

or did they just retaliate because of a ploy.


I usually do,

what I’m told.

But I’m not pressing that button,

to join your fold.


Selling weapons,

or providing arms,

training soldiers,

to export into farms.


Just doesn’t seem,

like a plan to me,

I’ve seen enough boodshed,

in a corporal capital world.


Slowly we change,

man up we do,

because we know,

what its like for that shoe.


When we walk,

when we talk,

when we listen,

or when we squawk.


The prevailing position,

we place ourselves in,

could be greed or fear,

not your well-being my dear.


So contentious conceited convicted we are,

more hypocritical than we can throw by far.

Power possitioning, an initimitory glance,

might as well bring it – all back to France.

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