Jubilee

Ceremoniously perched, the crow, her craggy beak spoke lies. 
When all she did was caw the knells of those
born without right blood. 
And go around as a magpie snatching valuables from the neighbourhood. 

The inbred raven preached superiority
from a stolen Sanguine throne.
There’s a belief in the bitter bile that passes for blood, 
running through those inhuman veins; 
masking true equality with traditionalism and national identity. 

To live off of one’s own blood, a self consumptive vampire, 
yet prosperous it appears when the ignorant fail to see
how foolish self-consumption is. 
You’ll throw your parties, hang you banners 
and dance the Devil’s dance. 

Sixty years and where’s the good? 
The demon spawn and her horde got richer. 
While we shall ever servants be until we choose 
to write our own blood into history; 
Blood that has been so futilely sold, 
by She and her kin, who we would hold so dear.