Under The Boot

Fascists are roaches,

bottom feeders roaming

the big cities, where they don't belong, spreading

their filth and multiplying 

unseen, scuttling rapidly. 

They are the fuzzy mold

growing on steamy bread.

Cut off the visible section,

but the spores continue to 

grow undetected and are also poisonous if consumed. 

Hailing dictators as easily

as the sheep marches behind

the bloodthirsty wolf, who howls 

and lies to their rotten hivemind. 

Their leader so quick to devour

them and the scapegoats alike. 

Militant in image but craven in reality.

Combat boots will not protect them 

from the righteous vindication

their violent future holds. Their 

own undoing will be the crass

and antiquated values they preach. 

The torches they carry in the night

will set their white hoods ablaze in

a wildfire stoked and fanned by an

uproar of savage frenzy. Bootlickers

drooling upon the cheap worn leather.

An outline of a fiery cross burned into their retinas as their own stolen

holy symbol falls upon them, crushing

them like the incredibly pathetic 

bugs that have ceaselessly continued

their pitiful existence in this world.