An iron crown.
A bloody throne.
Peasants bow down on polished marble,
wishing to kiss the bones of each toe.
You strike an apple upon a rebels head
and follow with machine guns.
An echo of their death.

Respect your spilled, purple blood.
Lick their palms and pluck their teeth.
Leave them in puddles of putrid soil
and use bombs.
A facade of lethal fireworks
to celebrate the destruction of
unquestionable loyalty.