Of such talents you are made,
for you twist the words of such bitter feelings,
into a subtlety that suits the mood of your day.
yes, you, yes, you, with your machiavellian crusade,
yes you,
you turn everything into such a destructive force,
for you are filled with such malcontent,
that utters forth from your mouth,
and your words are as futile,
as the charging of the light Brigade.
and you,
yes you,
you on your machiavellian crusade,
you are doomed to failure,
and are hell-bent on warping,
whoever comes your way.
And you, yes you, you are doomed to talk,
such utter rubbish that spews forth,
from your unhappiness,
and that belittles and traumatizes in every way,
and the cause of your unhappiness,
is formed in the crucible of your mind,
formed from the failures of your choices in life,
that eat away at you,
oh, malcontent it leaves you bitter and blind,
and you, you are as dark,
as the night on the sunniest of days,
and I, I have no wish to have a conversation with you,
for you are of such machiavellian ways,
And I will not walk in your footsteps,
along paths where you may lead me astray,
because in the words that you speak, I see no charm,
and your attempts to lead I dismiss so easily,
for it is an evil quality in you,
and you,
you with your Machiavellian ways,
you should be ashamed.
