You suck blood from nation,

Making forth into a confluence,

of many pipes sucking the ration

Of Every cert ounce of existence

Like one giant machine making the clock work

In the guise of a war against a phantom among the hills,

Whose arrow is stretched for fictional foe with a smirk,

Then you are not to be culpable for the suicide pills

On the border fenced with frames of firing faces,

The precious concert you want to abandon,

And make the people wear purple hue of chosen races,

And I have guessed it right you owe the reason

For bringing more money into the society with thousand faces,

You pat must too often,

That to yourself,

The stock of reason is empty of the sense of great coffin

To become the darling of the people and themselves

Masked with ideas, your own frustrations,

With a silencer to silence the very essence of elves,

That you are committed to your own libido instead of nations,

To rule the nation in one swig of lunacy.

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