The mess that we're in is as common as sin,
But we've never been quite satisfied
With our petty offenses, our own recompenses:
The guilt, and the secrets we've cried.
So we collaborate and we systemize hate
Into broad multinational schemes
That don't stop with the murder of one poor sheep herder,
But rend all the flock at the seams.
If our minds can't dismiss our Judas's kiss,
Then we'll hide it behind the bright mask
That we wear in the crowd, where the cheers are too loud
To admit our own role in the task.
What is murder for me is a triumph when we
Pin a flag or a ribbon to claim
The dark deed as a virtue. Don't blame me if it hurt you
To blot out your memory and name.
And if all of the men and their wives and descen-
-dents have fallen and bowed in their shame,
Then the earth will fall last--the die has been cast
and the ash will remember our name.
After pillaging kin, our own house will cave in
On our crimes, our excuses, our pride.
Only then will our lust to ground men into dust
Will be, with our death, satisfied.
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