They trace their lineage from the vermin of the throne.
This age has shown them their place.
Their palace now lies in the stinking urinals hung up in the corner of the street for people to pay their rightful obeisance to these sluts of power.
They enjoy these golden showers, often opening up their ass to satisfy their lust for silver cum from men who had licked their feet the era before.
Their eyes see only the glitter, they gobble up shit thinking that its gold which their ministers adorned their asses with.
They call out to beggars for the ‘gold’ which they live on. They like it stinky, and liquid — filled with diarrhea.
They truly are the children of shit.
Earlier they had ripped the innocence off the children with their swords and guns and wars and rapes. Their habit still persists.
Whenever they hear their giggles on the streets, their dicks, lathered in the bloody filth of the past, hardens. They call out to them, tempting them with stolen candies and toffees picked up from the streets.
Little skulls form a pile behind a urinal.
Their jaws are wide open — as if in an eternal shriek.
No one hears them.
A little child is tethered to a urinal in front. He is gagged with a 100 year old underwear, bloodstained, cum soaked just as the queen liked it.
He is the sacrifice.
Coyotes in khaki come in their jeeps.
His existence is snatched away into oblivion.
In order to recreate the fortresses they so loved to lived in, the moles have made their fortifications with blood-tipped iron rods and bottles which stink like intestines.
It rattles like a snake when the new vermin speed past them in their imported cars or helicopters.
Sometimes they stop for a piss or a shit.
As if drowning the city in their sewage wasn’t enough.
But the old diseased refuse, “No incest with ugly brothers,” they say, “No use collecting the same HIV in the ass.” They like variety.
They spit and leave, pissing their pants with their blown up egos shattered. They are so used to fuck that they have forgotten how it feels to have their asses ripped apart. They have forgotten their childhood.
The old hags wave.
They know that its only some years after which they too will join them in their ass-whoring.
That’s part of the game.
“We’ll be waiting,” they scream.
And the cycle of death completes itself.