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War Machine
Throwing away pennies as the hustler goes in retreat,
The voice is but an echo of what was once thought,
No soul can bend the guiding star, though not for a lack of trying.
We bury the dead until they have risen to the surface,
Just another resource, product and bought.
Freedom is an exemption from what we are told to believe,
Tightly packed mannequins fed with money and fear.
The fires are spreading, directed by blame,
Blissfully unaware that they will return again,
Sealing the fate of each broken man.
