Vultures hovering in the skies overhead

Circling the carcasses they made

Engaging in an endless charade

Their vile souls picking at the bones of the dead

A crooked raucous monotone blares

As the man at the microphones stares

Into the x of oblivion and the death in his eyes

Is also the death of a vision in the darkness of lies

Now the tides are all coded and pinned in a group

All the sides are erroded with dirt in the soup

Their vile souls picking at the bones of the dead

Vultures hovering in the skies overhead