I see the heaps of rubbish piled high,
their empty lies grandiosely plied.
With colour, venom and satire.
Corn coloured cobs whittled down.
Tabloid noise, not fit for fish 'n chips,
Though soiled no less.
Drear wrappings of blurb, discoloured by scorching sun.
Each eaten through truth's core of bone.
And yet the pack of lies still stand,
Precarious upon the precipice.
What whilst, will dash them upon the cliffs?
Then to sink their lies,
And make disappear?
No treasure will you ever find upon that sea.
Except dried truthless bone, gnawed cob and paper mash.
Let those lies stay buried out to sea.
Where the salt may eat them eternally.
To find truth, you must assume
That everything they sweetly ply
Is solely but grandiose lie.
And not to follow their blind machination.
Where they make out that every true courageous spirit.
That fights against this Zionist lie.
Or says other then they would want believed.
And to question is all that it takes
To bash the brains out of their
Before you taste the bitter seas of tears
Crashing, grinding you against the cliff's high walls.
Ere you climbed high upon that stench filled heap.
And were one of those stick fleshness men,
Who cannot smell the reek of lies.
Because you never questioned why?
Be brave my young soldier
You have my heart.
To battle against those grim lies
You will never be alone.
An earlier version missing the last stanza is found on my blog press account.
This is better.