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Pútín og Úkraína

Your Finest Hour


You face up to the cameras with
your steely staring eyes,
that give away no secrets
as you dissipate your lies

You say you care, you just want peace
your minions gaze in awe
but in your face we see deception
dying to wage war.

You talk about our duty
as you sharpen up the knives
you talk of men as numbers
as you plan to take their lives

You speak of rights and honour
as the fighters you implore
yet take away the futures
for the casualties of war.

Behind locked doors the children hide
they feel the tensions rise
they know that soon will come the roar
of missiles from the skies

They try to hide it all from us
their terror and their fear
but they are wise beyond their years
and know what may be near

The clay that shall no taller grow
the death, the hurt, the pain
are they a worthy sacrifice
for your terrestrial gain?

A finger on a button,
a battle being planned
The futures of the millions
you hold in bloody hand.

Misguided by your vanity
you stand in all your might
we cringe at the insanity
of telling us to fight.

Your Hollow Men from hollow towers
of ivory ignite
your hatred for their brothers
that goads them to the fight.

Your lies and fabrications
you spread with rancid breath
You talk of peace and amity
but all you bring is death.

What greed and bloody mindedness
has given you this power?
Murdering the millions
just for your Finest Hour.

Your Finest Hour will never be
you have nowhere to hide
you will become an evil name
all people shall deride.

The human spirit shall not bend
to your pathologic vein
Osymandes toppled,
nothing will remain.

Michael Jón Clarke er tónlistarmaður á Akureyri 

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