They’re not creative, not productive—these,
These soul-less thugs who seek to bend men’s knees.
A thinking self in them does not reside
Who hate the man of knowledge in his pride.
Originating naught, inventing naught,
Clueless of one independent thought,
These thirdish-handers of the human soul
Must hide behind destruction-as-control.
Full soundless is life’s bell in them that tolls,
For there are piles of ashes in their skulls.
Self-blind they act—smash-battering their goal,
To maim and kill until all mind is dead
And no man’s voice to say they are not whole—
These men in form, but uninhabited.

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