The Concrete Hunter

The man, the hunter, the death wisher,
He resides in the pearly concrete buildings that appear like the gates of heaven.
with blood stained horns growing from his skull, and a knife like tail hidden from predators that may try and dethrone him,  Watch out!

He is the last sound before the great death gasp, before the murder,
Flooding our homes, our deserts and the lush green forrests.
The animals see him, the illusion of a man with a suit and tie.
He is the agreement to all wars, the whisper to all hate.
No chance for us to escape.

The perfect disguise, camouflage, blending into the strip malls.
His face is everywhere, carved into mountains, flashing in our Television screens.
We salute him like the cloth that waves from large poles.
“Do us proud,” we yell, we scream, to the hunter of sin.
But the hunter has never cared for what we think, what we want from him.
We are nothing but sheep, to fight his war.
Shave are cotton hair, and ship us off to die.

For this hunter doesn’t hunt to eat, This hunter hunts to grow his fields, his business, his power.
The concrete hunter grows stronger every forsaken hour.
Turn your television off, your radio down, and listen to the heart and the sound of the wilderness.
It will lead you to the truth, to conquer his power.

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