Two-Faced Harvest

The two faces of the pack, so sly and slick,
can’t get enough from their minions—quick!
They wring out the souls who toil and sweat,
extracting the labor they’ll soon forget.

The tree that once bore the fruit of love
now withers beneath a sky above
darkened by hatred, poisoned with spite—
a harvest corrupted, lost in the night.

Little Miss Fortune, she’s hit the bottle,
drunk on the lies that they throttle.
Exchanging her jaded truths for gain,
she confides in the preacher, both numb to pain.

What once was sacred, now tarnished and torn,
a field of ideals left broken, forlorn.
The preacher preaches, but his words are hollow,
for behind his sermons, darker paths follow.

Minions of labor, blinded by hope,
climb the ropes, while the leaders elope.
A pack that devours, with hunger unquenched,
draining the well where the innocent drenched.

Little Miss Fortune, lost in the haze,
trades her dreams for the preacher’s praise.
A sip for a secret, a bottle for grace—
they dance in circles, hiding their disgrace.

The tree has grown bitter, its roots turned black,
the fruit of love lost, there’s no turning back.
The flow of hate seeps through the ground,
choking the light where love was found.

Two faces of power, smiling so wide,
as they harvest the souls with nothing to hide.
Miss Fortune laughs, but her eyes betray
the sadness that drives her further away.

In this twisted game of hollow gain,
where love is traded for comfort and pain,
the pack remains hungry, the preacher corrupt,
and Miss Fortune drinks to the world they’ve fucked up.