A fool, 'tis thee, to now decry
Accusations far and wide
Of atavian genocide
Could it be thou cans't abide
On thine actions, shone a light?

Gesture, huff, and sullen-sulk
Pointing towards the other folk
Claim death: "Excusable in bulk,
And omelettes mean eggs must be broke,"
Leaving thee above reproach.

Thy reasoning leaves much desired
Like putting out a fire with fire
"Genocide is far from dire,"
Just because thy Ocean Sire
Would have thee in His war be mired.

Cower 'neath illogic's cloak,
The truth thou would not have spoke:
In blood thine hands doth gleeful soak
Instead thy pen spills forth a joke
Of poetry; 'tis cheap and rote.

Respect? Thou'st such balls on thee
To scrawl drivel poised with dignity
When thy blade is mired in the deed
Of genocide, 'tis plain to see,
Enacted by the Shining Sea.

Penned by my hand on the 11th of Chronos, in the year 979 AF.