To the chosen,
Those of evil stare,
Who spread weeds,
And administer venom,
Those who hide the keys,
And water misery,
Who cut grass
Before it grows,
Dark hate reapers,
Those who trace talent
To wipe out its footsteps,
Winners in the rat race,
adapted survivors
who establish beaten tracks,
those who hide their truth
in the fear they inspire,
always getting rot,
to you, scum.
Luis Gil de la Puente
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/6-the-elite-of-the-pure/
