And faraway, someone saying ‘sounds good.’
will make entertainment from this bloodshed;
live sumptuously on the profits;
manufacture heroes on the bodies of our dead;
make villains of us in our own land
for the concoction of stories for foreign ears.
And faraway they’ll live in unimaginable mansions
above the lapping of waves on golden beaches
with the choice of Lamborghini or Ferrari in their garages.
They’ll die in beds feathered with our hardships many stories on;
live longer than the span of whole families
who would have survived on a fraction of their box-office.
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