Rebellion
Nothing beats the finery of dance and formal dress.
We stand about in quiet solitude expecting nothing less.
What's this?
Boys and girls intermix, laughing giggling free.
Blaring music or soft wafting tunes. All seem just as happy,
As if they were at some dinner party, mirth-ridden over a breeze.
Indeed 'tis strange these common folk, or high born if you please.
They act above the servants and would piss on any serf.
IF it was in proper etiquette, or simply if it was worth,
The simple moment of the kicking kind, the cringing fool at their feet.
We watch from below the pedestal and bow before the pompous meat.
Mutter Mutter.
What's this?
Revolution building like a blind-sided bull.
Rippling and roaring with and insatiable pull.
A boy is slaughter for stealing some bread, shot down by men in coats.
The populace all snaps at once, screams of outrage and vehement notes,
Are heard by the deaf and shorn by the hand of the high lords and ladies.
May they burn in hell on the cross of Lucifer, mighty lord of Hades.
What's this?
Cheers! Joy!
We're winning against the blue coat bastards, waiting on the doting sops.
We cringe beneath the crackling muskets, but press it hard upon the fops.
We give it all we have for Family and kin.
We know where we're going we know where we've been.
It's time for vengeance and sating by blood.
We shall be the Ocean. We shall be the tide. The flood.
Prepare yourselves you foppish Twits.
Its time the wound you left on is knits.
Its our time for a change.
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