The Warmonger - Poem

 The Warmonger 1

He walks in suits with blood-soaked crimson ties,
And dead men flicker in his eyes.
He smiles while factories blaze and fall,
For profit echoes through the wall.

He knows two truths, but serves but one—
Not build, but break beneath the sun.
While some would raise a bridge or dome,
He burns the house to sell the home.

His is the logic of the flame:
“Destroy, then profit. Break, then claim.”
He funds the child to smash the glass,
Then pays the glazier for the task.

He slips a coin into a hand
To slash the tires across the land—
Then sells the wheels to those in need,
And calls it growth, and calls it greed.

He does not plow or plant the field,
But arms the hand that will not yield.
He builds machines to scorch the sky,
Then sells the maps to those who die.

His empire grows on corpses piled,
On mothers mourning every child.
He speaks of aid, of clean repair,
While siphoning billions from the air.

The contracts signed, the wars arranged,
The blueprints inked for cities changed.
But nothing built will ever rise—
Just empty shells and deeper lies.

The money flows, the bodies fade,
As schools collapse and debts are paid.
And in the dust, the children cough,
Their future sold, their limbs torn off.

He poisons soil, he salts the womb,
He whispers death from every room.
Depleted shells in shattered stone,
A thousand years of blood and bone.

And when peace dares to draw near,
He finds a spark, he stokes the fear.
He sabotages every truce,
For peace makes war’s demand reduce.

No art of speech, no noble pact,
Just screams and missiles in the act.
Diplomacy, to him, is weak—
He only knows the bomb to speak.

He cries for aid, he begs for arms,
He drains the world of all its charms.
He steals from vaults in foreign lands,
And starves the people with his hands.

This is the warmonger—masked and sly,
He does not build, he does not try.
He gorges on the grief of men,
And dares to call it peace again.

But every empire’s flame runs cold,
And every tyrant's tale grows old.
The day will come he cannot stall—
When ruins rise and he will fall.

The Warmonger 2

He shuffles streets in boots worn thin,
With crooked teeth and oil-stained skin.
His coat’s in tatters, crusted grime—
A drifter cloaked in filth and time.

But do not laugh, or turn away—
This is the man who shapes your day.
His fingers black with soot and ash,
Still grip the world with every crash.

He knows two paths, but walks the worst:
Not build, but break, then fill the purse.
He pays the child to smash the pane,
Then charges thrice to fix again.

He hires a hand to slash the wheels,
Then sells the rubber, seals the deals.
He calls this growth—this cycle vile—
He thrives where ruin runs a mile.

He builds no schools, no homes, no peace,
Just war machines that never cease.
He doesn’t farm, he doesn’t sow—
He reaps the dead where bombs still glow.

He speaks of help, of foreign care,
While looting vaults from anywhere.
He poisons wells, he scars the ground,
And calls it justice, grim and sound.

He feasts where famine makes its bed,
And sleeps where grieving mothers bled.
He shuns the pen, destroys the pact—
For every peace, he counteracts.

The moment silence nears the land,
He strikes again with trembling hand.
For peace is death to men like this—
He’d rather choke the world than miss.

No crown he wears, no shining suit,
He smells of rust and gunpowder soot.
Yet still the tyrants call him kin,
And line his path with blood-soaked sin.

He begs for bombs, demands your gold,
Then leaves your children sick and old.
He starves the globe, yet eats his fill—
The god of loss, the priest of kill.

He is the warmonger—raw and real,
He doesn’t care how poor you feel.
In torn-up boots, he stalks the earth,
And trades your ruin for his worth.

But the end will come, slow and cold,
When even monsters lose their hold.
The world will spit his poison back—
And pave a path he can't untrack.