The yellow god

The idiot yellow god drinks and gurns and brays and lies and drinks again and lies, again. Around him the shadows he calls friends: the people he has not yet betrayed.

Far away, out of sight and mind, other people are waiting to die alone: with tubes forced down their throats they fight for breath without hope, without friends, without family, forsaken.

And the tin god cares nothing for them: why think of the little people dying, when he can drink and blare and grope? Their purpose was only to anoint him. Their purpose is done now: let them die.

The idiot yellow god drinks and ruts and laughs and lies and drinks. He stands supreme on his great mountain, on the mountain we have made for him, on the mountain of our rotting corpses.

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