The Cyclical Schadenfreude Of Revolution

Stomp!
To the cadence
And beat of
An oildrum.
March! Yes,
Let your
Pores
Cry.
It's that sweet
Sweat, seeping from
Mr. Backbroken and
Mrs. Thimblethumbs
That fills our
Encrusted chalice,
Gulped down,
Then spat back
Upon your
Slumlands.
Let it fill your
Wells and
Rivers, our
Spittum,
Clear and
Unsuspecting.
You'll drink it,
You'll kill us,
You'll become us,
You'll love it,
And when He comes back,
He'll be none the
Wiser.