Corrupt Arms

The law’s inferno, for burning out crime, is nei’er alive nor living in their hearts; freezing justice to become still in time, when they’re false in fulfilling their just parts. Indiscipline, whose body is of slime, aims ever at truth its marring keen darts; corruption’s elevated to its prime, as they breed dirt through their veiled charts. The cry of lives against hell is no chime to their ears, but a mute. Oil-steeped mood starts greed in th’ top seats, who after their climb to the houses, loot wealth—wide through bribe’s arts. Light-fingering th’ state’s vaults many-a-time, failing lives across beds, desks, stalls and carts; the arms’ vain power like the simply thawed rime, has ailed offices, schools, farms, plants and marts. For greed: wealth’s vile as waste; life’s sour as lime; leaders, voracious as gluttons on tarts, gorge billions as if to sap every dime, like droughts turning forests into deserts.