Routine of War

It was a drone with the mask of a leader, holding too many trump cards while guzzling down and aging bottle of broken dreams. Unaware of the trophy he made in his own image but having it be awarded to some newcomer whom he had never heard of but then allowed the thunder to roll over his anger. Whats the message when the bottle has sunken to the bottom of the sea where so many are laid to rest; some obscure proposal to end the violence before it stops selling t-shirts? Mad cows aiming their rage to any direction with a different point of view, maybe its less then that. The grand old battle of lack of wit mixed with confusion of self purpose covered with curly fires and other soul weakening mixtures of the day to day. I know one thing about this man is, he rather dance while the music is playing then question the song or the bloodstained dancehall that we call the way of life. Not too many steps will lead you to the proper exit but be warned that ball will continue after your rusting limo takes you off to that cloudy countryside we like to call change.