by Nick Gisburne
The victims of a murderous regime,
We live, we fear, from day to endless day,
But we are not the spineless slaves we seem.
Resistance makes us predators, not prey.
Machinery mysteriously dies,
The means to fix it hidden, stolen, smashed.
On every corner, pieces of their prize
Are damaged in defiance, twisted, trashed.
Intruders, trained to conquer, not to rule,
Are negligent, undisciplined, inept.
In every frightened face they see a fool,
Until we burn their bodies where they slept.
A trick, a trap, whatever we can do,
Reminds them we are many, they are few.
