A scourge of white rats

Foul, diseased

Intent on destroying everything in their path

And the Pied Piper that leads them plays songs of evil

They have been waiting...


For years

With beady eyes glaring

Noses twitching

Sniffing out violence

Wanting a taste of blood

They long for choas

Nothing lies in their hearts

But a seething black mass

Writhing and coiling like a serpent

Poised to strike

With every ounce of venomous hatred

Held withing their shrivled hearts

They are a diseased horde

That cannot be killed

They cannot be drowned

Or poisoned

For the Pied Piper that leads them 

Fuels their flame

And this horde will not stop

Until this land is theirs. 

This poem is about: 
My country
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 


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