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The weight of shame Hangs easy from the necks of

Those chosen for power Those soulless, rotting men

Who sleep soundly to the roar Of burning cities

Their legacy means nothing at all

Empty lineage

The winners write the history But the day will come And their hand will break And when they die

Let their ideas die with them Like the mothers of those burning children

We'll put those ghosts to rest for good.

Graves marked with charred wood

Fuck your Great War