You, the master of power-control, you demand blood, gold, and silver for your strength
Youth is doomed in the name of your own crown and throne; iron-fists are flattened in your wrath
Kings and pawns can be crossing a new border; just draw some imaginary-line
Take the honor, and brag at the sky; gloat and stand smug; just be proud of your design
Stand over cultures like a great giant glutton over a banquet
Shout vocal thunder to the mob; enjoy your most definitive moment
Yakkety yak and blah blah and crazy talk into microphones
Making the sense a mouth makes in front of multiple multitudes
Sicken the human stomach; play the mass trick
Tension, alarm, and panic, make it all work
All of the constitution burns to smoked ash
All of your gains are losses; even friends clash
Once, you stood by a bucket, and held the handle of a mop
Gazing into an angel, the pelvic valley of her lap
Wear a costume; forget who you were; wear a pale clay mask of archetype and myth
You, the master of power-control, you demand blood, gold, and silver for your strength
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