The poor don't count, we buy them at bulk rate
and they are grateful for a mouldy crust
dropped in the gutter, they're lower than dust
and should when we can do it be shipped freight.
It's not that we these humble beings hate
but that our swords unblooded sit and rust
and there's no outlet for our great bloodlust,
so we just slaughter them and call it fate.
Our enemy was a mere petty despot
who quaked whenever he heard our swift planes,
but it was easy on him to pin a crime.
So now poor folk are dying out in Mespot
in order that our glory never wanes
and we preserve our greatness for all time.