Taxing the Poor

The drumbeats of doom loom over the morning
The low sounds of death, each note pounds a warning
As old men consult, and generals chatter
The young men prepare, their entrails to scatter

They pray to their Gods, and hate their own mothers
For bringing them into a world where their brothers
Are cursed by their king, with glorious lying
Conscripted at birth for this day of dying

The drumbeats now cease, replaced by the voices
Of desperate boys who never had choices
In moments their flesh will meet swords and axes
For this is how poor men have always paid taxes