The crescent moon was bleeding and blending, the wind blowing in from the west.
Soldiers were shooting and seeding, igniting the growing unrest.
Sticks and stones against bullets, to secure a saviours crown.
Rivers of blood now flow in the sand, to bring dictatorships down.
But the blood of the dictators, added to the blood of their deed, is no way in comparison, to the dictatorship of greed.
Black gold, White skin, in the desert, our interests in foreign lands.
To serve a whore, that will always want more, the crescent moon bleeds in the sands.
Want to join the conversation? Sign in to leave a comment.