In rhythm sworn, he bows his beak,
And honor he shall know.
For swords, like men, will taste of blood
In the February snow.

As clouds depart, his shadows cast
In contrast to his pose;
A dead man rests as darkness, down,
But courage drives him home.

With solace melts a silent dawn,
As hilltops reign with fear.
For cannonballs and shrapnel shells
Ignite the hemisphere.

He bends his eye to masonry,
Lunging towards defeat.
And one fell swoop brings chaos home,
As rebels fall to sleep.

With holy chains, he bears his brand,
And hauls his every woe.
In fields he looms till nightmares wake--
Though begs them not to go.

O how the Devil walks with he,
Abruptly to the beat.
He breathes of sweat and tyranny,
He stands on soldier's feet.

And all he has, for shackles taut,
Dies hollow in his sheath.
He scours hills to find a soul
That's buried underneath.

And I much lost the spectacle--
Am envious at last;
With garb and clutch and helmet bound
To heart in iron, cast.

But lost with eyes half dimmed inside
By monarchist satire…
I grab the seat he built for Rome,
And claim it My empire.

 
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