• He is a fickle beast
    Always wasteful in the least
    Lust does he for nothing less
    Than the taste of human flesh

    Four legs made of man's metals
    Drooling crimson onto sunflower petals
    Skin of the color man's bones exposed
    Having wounds he hates keeping closed

    made of malicious intent
    He's on the horizon with War and Lament
    He will charge once the sun has fell
    There's no escape, no bluff, no tell

    Thoughts are where he is first born
    Spinning ambitions, Marx is torn
    Many from the grave have rose
    To feed his body without close

    Race will not matter when he is alive
    On man's evolution will he strive
    Difference is his dinner's dessert
    Man will fight, no force will he exert.