Overlords Of The Cult Of Growth

I.
Vicious snake-eyed lies 
crumble away in steady black waves
of ebbing charcoal.
Butterflies of iron lift upwards
into the molten sky.
II.
Pay the cult masters for
their share of the blood.
In their palms, 
ignorance turns into cash,
the unenlightened morph into fascists;
it's so easy not to ponder when fed 
fairy tales filled with ancient hate.
III.
Shed the skin
from off of the baby's skull, 
use it to start the dogs
towards their brutal goal.
Stomp out the truth 
with heavy metal-lined boots.
Watch the butterflies of iron lift upwards
into the molten sky.
IV.
There below the decadent masses kneel, 
bowing towards the grimy rich, 
oblivious to the ballooning gravity 
that will soon break their wavering backs.
Time to toss your last pennies 
into the coffers of the rich;
they picked your pockets on the way up,
and now on they joyfully take your houses
and pensions on the way down.
Time to repay the cult masters
their share of the blood.
Time to stomp out the truth 
with heavy metal-lined boots.
V.
Vicious snake-eyed lies 
crumble away in steady black waves.
of ebbing charcoal.
Butterflies of iron rain down
from the molten sky,
smashing holes in every yacht
and mansion constructed with 
the hideous geometry of stolen blood.
As the filthy rich dive for cover, 
a righteous crimson Tsunami towers over
their trembling, green-stained hands:
a billion trickles of blood converge;
their lungs begin to choke on war corpses 
and environmental sludge,
their eyes bulge with the pain of the fleeced masses,
and the shocked expression on their faces
reveals a final lesson unlearned.
VI.
Time to repay the cult masters
their share of the blood.
Time to stomp out the lies 
with heavy metal-lined boots.
Time to shed the skin
from off of the baby's skull
and use it to jumpstart 
the dogs of war.