Poem: 8th of the 8th and 17 Lines

A mass of flames grew up from frustration
A rolling tyre burning across the nation
It will find you and lay bear your misdeeds
It will not listen to your whining pleas

And when the flames reach
Your conscience will feel the breach
Forever more the smoke will fill it
And there is no pill that will clear it

Will the mass of rubber reach the head
Or will it burn out in the minds of those being led
Those being fed and bred by sweet honey
The type that can only be bought with dirty money

Will the secret mark determine a new path
Or will it be a firework in the bath
Will the bells toll for his and him
Or is it just a fanciful dream

Alas, a whimper, we dream on.

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