Behead the poets
Whose words grew so sharp
That they overpowered the peaceful strumming of a harp
Whose words grew dangerous to the elite
But pleased the ears of the meek.
Art is dead

Break the wrists of the artist
Whose paintings outlined corruption
In beauty or in bloodshed
Yet these images thirst'd
And stirred the minds of the common wed
A threat to power, silenced by a final hour
Art is dead, democracy is dead

Cut the throat of the musicians
Whose hymns and melodies grew too loud
Whose voice pleased the crowd
Whose music inspired nostalgia
Gloating on how things once were
Art is dead, modern music is misled

The voice of democracy has gone
Tyranny has spread
When ignorance and corruption was set in place too long
The people lost track of what they were after
Only seeking attacks and laughter
Thus the people elected disaster
Absolute power to the war pigs and his suit thereafter

Handcuff the judge
Who only had a grudge and favor
Which briskly allowed his sway for;
To allow this injustice to be carried so swiftly;
Whose sharp words, drastically concurred
Everything art had to be
Corruption has set, injustice has let art go unmercifully
Justice is dead, riddled so fetch.
Democracy was bled for, now democracy bleeds. Misled.