Poor you

Poor you, 

Ears with total hearing loss

Eyes pierced by the chair of boss

Nose struck pulled from the course

Mouth vomiting pungent force 

Poor you old lady,

You’ve lost not just your strands but so your stand

Real stories you fake and blend

Breaking glasses into sand

Thinking, this is exactly how it ends 

Poor you crooked old lady

For not realising how you’ve turned grey

Blurring justice astray

Confusing your state and also your statement 

Heal your own scar by law amendments 

Poor you thirsty crooked old lady

For fame, you defame

For gold, you act cold

For power, blood you shower

But the only good that you gain

By splashing your stain

From noble to trouble

Is the skill

To kill. 

Condolences from me, old lady kyi. 


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