I can call my rantings poetry, if you can call this joke a life.
If your name can be printed on a history book, for killing a thousand Jews overnight
I too can be remarkable, in this unremarkable world,
For who are you to judge,
If Hitler was wrong, or am I?

My rhyming skills are terrible, and you suck at carving with a knife,
Yet you cut my heart out,
And I wrote poetry at midnight.

They say you’re evil if you hurt a thousand men,
But why not if you hurt just one?
Isn’t it the same, whether a million lives were lost or one?

Why is one death so unacceptable, yes you assassinated ones, I’m talking to you
And some lie forgotten,
Because he saved not a country, but only a few?

What is fair, what is not, you tell me, or should I?
Every thing was a lie, from your money, to that other man’s wife.

We have no semblance of reason, we only chase absurdity,
Then proudly proclaim we are superior,
Because we can kill without necessity.

We are nature’s dirty joke, a mutated mistake, an error in transcription,
We made beds of thorns and roses,
And rhyme without reason.


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