Wrath Poem by Peter Black

Burn it to the ground
Any structure or house
And stamp the bones and ash to feed the grass,
Raze the fields that rise in sweat and blood
And kill the men who make money in blood.
In the wreckage, I smile
Jump, spin, dance and taunt,
To call at the dead all their ills;
Then when I have had my end,
I would joke the murdered and I were friends,
To mock alike all the people they spilled,
To gain some stance and profit and clink.
I would dig a million graves
And a million times write,
'This body needs no name.'