Writhe in the deep of our darkest dome.
Right where we sleep is what we call home.
No one will step across our threshold.
You should know we’re like dogs with a bone.
No one will stop our commitment.
Forever after will come an incremental attack on you.
Made your bed and you’ll die in it too.
Step from the steppes into this quaint little town.
Every villager you see wears a frown.
Self-importance rules their heads.
Too busy loitering away hours in their sheds.
You can’t stop our advancing.
Whittle down their resources ’til they wish to beg.
For their dishonour they will be dead.
Flounder.
Plead like a fool.
Counter.
Us against you.
Plural.
For we are legion.
Demented.
By your acts of treason.
Simon A Jackson - Writer 