A tyrant seeks with tongue or sword to erase
In his conquests every other race
But his own, put defenders to the chase.
He doesn’t have to kill to cut off heads;
He can speak black words of hatred instead.
By doing so, his voice, his anger, bled
Of honor, leaves him only his blunt spear
To throw blindly at what he thinks is fear,
As one by one his soldiers disappear.
The “headless” ones begin to speak of truth
With the insight and energy of youth,
And refuse to accept their headless state:
The tyrant himself, mumbling, “I am great,”
With nothing left beneath his balding pate.
