The Quadrillion

Millions strong, they marched them in
across the pregnant sands
where lightning fuel doth ooze
these brothers march in bands.

"We'll have them home by Christmas,"
one Governor did say.
"We'll bring them in by greyhound,
if the flying wing should frey."

And yet we cannot escort,
our visitors here so wrong.
Yet soldiers we can march them,
for all the months so long.

"Political expediency,"
it was their rallying cry...
"we must have them home by Christmas,
else victory's slim chance should die."

And to what end would they grab their power,
these lepers at the gate?
For their mouths unbridled and dour
they run so fast from hate.

Like striped dogs they worm around
and blame the other packs
for bellies them so yellow
no hair left on their backs.

With baren tooth, once alarming
they snarl and spit their bile
about them, nothing left is charming
and what backbone there is vile.

An inebriated populace
play these video games
And wolves win victory domestic
Then who do former allies blame?