The Cunning V
  the artless
the wheeling dealing
 men in grey
smoke filled rooms
and blood as red
Babies  crying
So they say
ruse and wile and stratagems
the Machiavellian brood are here
taking on  the steadfast
the homespun
All locked down in fear
labouring   over the sins of those
whose cutlasses  are driven 
know the prose
who sink into the mire and sob
A given
we fight with fists all bloody
to the end
We all felt off 
looking back to faces pale 
and  all of this because
somebody I didn’t know supposed to have 
heard me cough.

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