They are the weapon-shaped men
that puts propriety to shame
Those careless waves across the grain
You shan't associate with them.

Somewhere a bleeding heart, I'm sure.
Hidden.
Waiting for some cure.
A lack of care to set them free
yet bound to hate and secrecy
they crawl from surface to beneath
the shoes of tyrants dirty feet.

The way you smack a fly to death
that's how they love with no regret
to consume and deprecate
no line midst love or putrid hate
as reptiles blood adapt to cold
a rotting carcass paves their fate.