Our Robespierre, Our Machiavelli
Our Robespierre, Our Machiavelli your power-lust soul reeks, like the mass-dug graves likes hands freshly drenched in pedicide genocide and homicide, the trail of blood leaves an invisible stain on your immaculate white babarigas unseen by all, seen by all oh tiny tyrant, whom Fate has seemingly nurtured for such a time as this, what will be your end, you despicable one? will you die a pauper like Machiavelli, become a crippled invalid like the loathsome Sergent Rogers, who was dreaded by all at a time now beaten by life, a shell of his fearsome self, or will your tiny neck, out of which sprung millions of untruths grace the guillotine, like Robespierre, the public accuser, amidst the ecstatic joy of the murderous mob? Or will fate look the other way and reward your bloodthirsty avarice-filled years filled with gilded rot? Only time will tell