The ivy tower prophets, in a league of their own,
look down upon the masses from their feeble thrones.
"Go out into the world," they say with a sneer
"and discard all those intolerant you come near"
They barely watch, as the true believers pass
Like ants upon a hill, their followers thrash.
Ignorant of the cries, of victims of their creed,
Ignorant of the lies they've spoken for the deed.
Blind eyes cast upon the dead of their own
Only gleeful joy they have for those dying against their thrones.
They'll never proceed beyond the walls of their learned estate,
less they see and understand the cruelty of their chosen fate.
Chosen ignorance for all who have been dragged and cast down.
Instead, they reach forward to grasp their forged crown.
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