They sat around complaining that they were a dollar short.
Then they turned upon the poor and beat them just for sport.
The Inquisitor arrived and ascended to the throne.
He begged freedom’s pardon as he cut her to the bone.
An eerie cry was heard to echo ‘round the chamber,
It awakened sweet justice from her deep and dreamless slumber.
The banshee wail of death bespoke of her demise.
Freedom was removed; the world would be the prize.
A battle for the throne was fought without delay.
Hail, the New World Order, they’re about to put in play.
The peons saw it coming but kept up with the pretense.
The knights were on their steed, their stance bespoke defense.
The courtyard erupted with the clash of steel on steel.
As the fiercest battle raged, there was none who would not kill
to reign in freedom’s stead and to grasp the scepters head.
The rivers soon would flow with the blood of the dead.
I awoke from this dream, believing we had gained some sense,
Alas, what was I thinking, we’ll just keep up the pretense.
Shelby I. Courtland
©2013 Shelby I. Courtland