Sprinkled by the trappings
Of words that make the outlines
Blur on the showplace of made history
The Folk is willed
To parrot the dished up tale
The lure of a higher meaning

Cheat you had to create
An enemy stereotype
To receive your absolution
A frothy poor excuse for your foray
To disengage from the deeps
Of your encumbrance

Behold
All our gold
Thousandfold
Bereave me!
Declined
Truths ensign
Forever mine!
Bereave me!

March in with ten legions
Whilst the crucial weapon’s not the pillum
But the feather held in your hand
Penned in blood
Your tall-tales rule the forum
Altering it into the battlefield

I, the spectral guise
Evoking these baring fears
Pestering your conscript fathers
I smile at my demise and while I die
I cherish the roots of my perseverance